I wait at the chapel gate
for a prayer . . .
Years drawing bobbins sprockets,
things that turned . . .
I made cameras with bobbins
then some films
turned.
The bobbins spun pots,
sprocket edges became lips,
thirsty lips
edges
crafted for a metal ending.
Potters know of lips
smoothed by wet chamois,
how alpacas sacrificed their skin.
I walked through that gate,
went into that chapel.
Turned, poured one to the other .
did I pray?
pour sacred water into vessels?
.
