All beginning in a pot
outlasted, to the urn's last,
this generous container.
Potential, repletion, liberality, storage.
The interior intangible, the skin utilitarian.
What the maker abandoned became her donation.
Exuberant and shy, both.
The inside and the surface
Aged with fifteen years of pickle, so dense
now that inter-spicing has transformed
the jar wall to a rind — transitionally edible.
It's a rind minus fruit. A form quintessentially
that's without. And for all our beautiful discarded
peel, it's our frangible, tangible compensation.
Together we embrace the convex.
But thorough the inside:
that's a solitary expedition.
O the mildness. Still thing. Earth's courtesy
that's transcended between hands. No angular
fragments with their inconclusive edges.
Here, through history,
was a blameless tool.
One simplifying utensil.
A renewed fragmentation.
Crazed alignment which had,
just once, shuddered.
The pot that renounced its continuity.
Milk which meant well. That
opening face. O darling of a horizon!
Through glass manufactured to
the transparency of self-abnegation,
a gathering of perfectly contrived minor enclosures
whose shared darkness was both local and Korean.
Pale green nude lotus
whose inscription on biscuit
healed scorching bodies.
The nature of the various,
subordinated to a state of
of one simply jarred thing.
At once one-year-old and mother.
Innocence from centre
which both thrusts and renounces.
Unmemorable interior. Mortality
in the concave. A flicker
of the conscious in free time.
Let me retreat to this unvarnished
corner where the jars stand helpless,
each with its shadow which crawls up
and then falls as the window determines.
No more about pots. The world's a full
enough container and spins without a
pedal on its motionless, self-generating secret.