As soon as we have the thing before our eyes, and in our hearts an ear for the word, thinking prospers.
- Martin Heidegger

I
Perfect curve, shaped like nothing
but itself. Love-object, disquieting muse:
little paraboloid moon
pored like skin, freckled lightly
at the south pole, sheened
ceramic. Cold to touch as stone. Something
rolled in sleep; weighty
in the hand. Pink tear-plummet from eye
of soft rock god. Friendly face
all gaze, no feature. Inside, messy life.

II
The sky blue tortoiseshell.
Mixed on its palette the curded marquetries
and stones, the scumbled
rag and piled muscle, a slow
...