Stiff
I have placed my being into a ceramic pot. It is here that I lie with my
toes tucked
and my elbows cold against its dry, shaded form.
We know not
how to toss our hearts into a container with a lid, and I know not
how to rid my black clothing of this residual
dust,
for I am stuck inside of this pot
and invariably I hit my head on its top
and dust settles gently once more unto my aching knees.
I have yet to see a person, and I cannot help but hope one day to hear the delicately optimistic sound of
ceramic on ceramic.
And so once more I peek with desperation and a strained eye through the crescent opening at the top of this pot,
waiting eagerly for its shape to begin waxing and the pain in my legs to subside.