My hands alone are not enough. Cupping them I fail to slake thirst. I have to glaze a formal clay, to fire it into this bowl: my own making, this scooped out stanza waiting for the poem's content. Let it lift to the rain and be filled with fallen cloud, a heavenly portion. For this vessel is ground enough. It mediates between need and sustenance. Once it was rock and then granules, mire. And again it is hard, holding. With its help let my longing be quenched, and once more quenched. Let me survive by shaping earth.

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