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