I never named any of the thousands. I only think of them, my children in a stranger’s house. I am unreliable.
My visual of the past is intact and I can hold their numbers, materials (wheel-thrown, hand-built.)
I appreciate your planning, the tan slacks by the green door, the solidarity of your shirt and shoes. I realize my pink two-piece may preclude a spirited discussion.
I’m not trying to be seductive. I get wily in the summer when there’s time to make.
Let me show you around, tell me what you like (take 1978, 1983-- there is a great deal missing in between.) That’s how the trouble starts. Try to understand.
I am very close-minded and rather mean- spirited. I am rude with underlings, my will is invented, I take liberties.
Try to look less like you. Sit more to the left. You’re a part as well, and the fireflies behind you. Sometimes I forget you’re here, wondering what to do with all this darkness
