If I were able to draw, or sculpt, or paint,
to put my thoughts on paper or canvas, the fire inside a pottery kiln, warming and illuminating.
Paintings in the form of intricate
lines, symbols, colors, brash and ostentatious, ...
I would be able to veil my thoughts and ideas
an axis of
adroit crafts that would tell a story to the clothed eye.
I make artwork often, more often than I used to
but I usually end up burning it. It feels cleansing somehow,
the same way that the written word does.
Sometimes I burn the poems that are just for me.
I think I am trying to find my axis.