Much came into the clay that was not intended:
the round bottom and the quivering lip;
the hollowness of years

spent apart and wasted on paintbrushes; the
indelible kiln-fired fingerprints around the neck and
the sides which bulged outwards, but which

were still very beautiful.

Much layered the vase that was unforeseeable:
a picture of a bluebird trapped in mid-song
its black beak frozen

in the fixity of eternal about-to-be; a leaf falling
ceaselessly from a wet branch anticipating
the sound of its impact which

will be very beautiful.

But much entered once more into that breach:
daffodils which were much prettier than roses;
marbles that were painted

like glass eyes, and slips of folded paper with
words on them which are silent and have been
said billions of times before, but which

are still very beautiful.