I once wrote in secret
a novel about clay pots
across a span of prehistory and where
I could imagine the people who made them,
a void stature and cold
upon a nearby hillock,
to become enfolded in time,
lesson by lesson by lesson,
until we are inured of context.

I once wrote a collection of poems
about a teacher I loved in my youth.
He blessed me with a strata of doubt,
wherein the point was to subvert but never once.
Each poem a dialogue between the two,
an invented authority
albeit nurturing,
about my own unwillingness to say yes to anything.
Even a child understands the malleability of clay.