}} Vase |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










Vase

An upturned glass maw
that is furrowed at the brim,
it misplaces its flute.
It slouches at the table
until it becomes smaller,
wiser, less visible.

Now it wants air.
Now it wants water.
It wails a splash
no riverbed can hear.
Now it wants nothing.
Then it wants more.

            excerpted From A Roomful of Machines