Whenever the other–
like an amphora carved
out of purple marble,
small, for oil, or rest
scattered pearls in,
time is like that, time
is the kiss of the other
given freely, answer it
we must, you make me me.

2.
It comes of having things.
A little stone pot on the sill
from Greece by friend
whose loss is still,
still there, palpable,
colorful, the way death’s pigments linger
in the fresh new day.

3.
So I suppose history began
when we first made things.
Before that, there was nothing
to force us to remember,
maybe trees turning color,
but then the green comes back snow melts and here I am.

4.
Thingless thinking?
Goethe begging for more light?
Close the senses, be a stone
and do nothing but remember?
Dangerous mind of morning.

12 October 2022