LOBED BOWL WITH BLACK GLAZE AND WHITE SCALLOPED RIM

Turning from the obituary page,

he hears a serew tighten,

recalls a dead sparrow on a greenhouse floor.

The mind can be dipped in a vat

when you slice an eggplant, sharpen a pencil,

shave. He woke slowly as light

sank through the skylight, brightening

the bedroom. He recalls running

his tongue from her breast to her armpit

as she shivered and ached with pleasure

An elder holds an eagle feather,

wafts cedar smoke, taps a woman

on her shoulders. He wants a mind

as pure as a ten-lobed bowl

with black glaze and white scalloped rim.

A broad-tailed hummingbird whirs in the air—

and in a dewdrop on a mimosa leaf

is the day's angular momentum