Between the Moon and Th Sun (Memories)

When my fingers kneel in the dust Patterning a priesthood of memory I create again I remember I make pots In the image of our emptiness How do you call sorrow beauty? I find the aesthetic a superficial Exclamation of ignorance About the moth Beating its fragile wings vainly After the web of seduction: Mirages of light The pot yawns for oil again There is no light when the sun goes down But leaves carry fire in their veins Leaves make wine Out of the solace of the moon I make pots Yawning for the blanket of stars Something to fill the soul With more substance than memory Something to brail the trail To the spiral center of the primal me This pot is a canvas of imageries Art and artist polarized by time And nothing left to tell the meaning of tides When the loins grow hot for love And boils, and boils, and boils And then evaporates into prayers. Love brails the language of clay For the wonder of truth O the pots are sanctuaries of emptiness We bring them on the head To the cliff of Orion To troubled thoughts for rain.