Friday, April 14, 2017


It's the very distance of the thing that makes it a thing.

Upon a hill there is a pot. This is no jar in Tennessee, although there is a blackbird. Later.

The different shades of day illuminate it, change its color and perhaps shape. I cannot really be sure of it from the distance I am at. How old is it? I go closer to it to see. Did I make this pot? Did I not just do that by using one word that contains multitudes?

In this creation, I understand the pot as container. I know it is two feet tall: that it is not really an ellipse because I am only seeing it that way. Everything is brown. The clay is now a deeper sienna, a flash of memory like hands tending to the drying linen. Could anything be so beautiful? Terra cotta is cooked again as I remember the words.

I am in a modality that changes the pot, myself and the hill. Metaphorically concentric, and therefore actually covalent to the actual modality, which could be called April—a single word of time that promises some sort of precision.

But isn't really.

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