Alvin Thomas Ethington

 

empty chair
displays lakeside home
hungry ghosts

 

 Sharon Rizk

 

Dividing Clay

 

No thing.

No time.

No space between.

You, cradled in my mind,

a shape still wet, not knowing.

 

My index finger glides around your rim,

slips down your inward curve and stops

abrupt

or I would drown.

 

Others will come later

to fire,

to paint,

to fill,

to want.

 

But I will always be your first encounter,

before utility or beauty or longevity

change you into precious and

a thing.

Apart.

 

    

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