I am trying, still, to touch something, something I cannot name, something that those of faith and bereft of doubt might call God — the inviolate kernel of epiphany — not so much to remove the grey between the black and white as to…

Living inside our bodies we never know the extent of our reach, where the tiny seedpods of our smiles are blown, where they lodge, where they reside deep in memory, how long they endure emitting their silent love, how much they become beacon, they…

You turned the wheel — I spun around: but I was not clay to your hands, I did not shape to your image, my imperfections would not vanish. Now you have left me here, fired and glazed, hard and set.