It slipped from my hand to the granite counter top
and split jaggedly in two thick, heavy pieces.
Everything I think I know tells me it’s Grandma’s dish,
though I don’t remember scooping mixed nuts from its smooth curve
or picking candy from inside its pointed armor.
When it cracked, I did too.
In the evening I rinsed that day-old sink of handwashables
and thought about the recent past.
It was a heavy day, full of life, death,
It must’ve been the thinking.
It’s never about the dish.
He steps out of the shower and into his body,
trying it on,
situating the muscles atop the bones,
adjusting the mass, the dimensions,
shaking out the width, the stability,
judging the play of gravity,
and just how
the weight of the world
on it today.
For years I’ve walked the little city blocks
filled with houses square and oblong,
small, large, and tiny hermit crab shells
I’ve listened to the birds fill the spring morning
and evening with their songs,
and I’ve heard their echoes
There is a canopy,
a corridor of brick
and vinyl, slate,
asphalt, grass, and concrete
Pythagorean ratios and integers
float in this air;
A Vitruvian reverberation smacks
the dome of this humid atmosphere
and rounds out all these hard lines
of living and life
and our round hermit crab shells
tighten, send us out and beyond
and into the next.