31

I a single lump of clay
Thrown on the wheel
Am broken now

And the doctor of philosophy
With nippled hat and dusty shirt
Digs the broken buried shard

Senseless to all but he and his kin
Who know the language of broken things
That whisper impatient reunions

And those who broke me
Who whispered about me
Lie in their cacophony

Unchanged with the ages:
Empty vessels where voices bounced
And ricocheted.

From a fortress unnamed but never unmanned,
Through a living wall of stone,
My voice passed and was heard;

Shut within walls
Where voices strive and clash
I heard a simple music

That set my toe to spring and fall
In tender steps on vast
And even floors

Where sun shone
And warmed the urn,
Exciting the air within

To a gentle stirring
Effortless song,
At one with breath at last.


© Dan Goorevitch, 2003