the ways of the vase

she tells me i am clay

while padding my belly

and that i should not try to mould

myself to anything but me

even if the couch slouches

into my flab like a friend lamenting

the same as her later

fingers moved away now but imprinted still

who says i am not dirt

i am the earth

the world

and i

a little graying clay

am in everything

including her words

that float blindly into

a tomorrow that never

takes shape

but sits on the horizon of nothing

everywhere

in her lips

in her mouth

in her

though it comes out

hot like pottery that will smash

one day on cold, soiled ground

*

change your shape so much

that you can never fit

their labels

reinvigorate your life

because it is yours

because it lives

because it belongs to no one

but you

and even you forget this

in the longing to be

change change too

so that when you reflect back on you

and all you’ve done

and mostly haven’t

you’ll see what you saw

was not always seen

but instead what was

simply

totally

yours yours yours

and the blindness of

too many i’s