Slip

Oblivion lives in a matte black dustbinin the corner of Julie’s studio.Lid on, it eclipses itself, a Buddhabeneath notice, waiting under primitiveshelves laden with pots-in-progress:leather-hard or biscuit-fired, provisionallypainted, the stoneware mute,a Morandi in waiting of milky bottles,milk and dust…                               You are makinga pinch-pot, idly turning and pressingand meanwhile thinking of something else—perhaps your mother, gone forever,or […]