Saturday, April 12, 2014

A Camera Gate


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?
.  

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