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


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.




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