Spin the wheel
and varnish a pot
with a crooked lid, a chip in the interior.
Fill it with past memories, past faces, aged places.
Coat the pot in its funeral colors – gray-scale – gloss it like a waning moon,
a moon who witnessed the death of a star,
a moon whose surface was coated with emblems of conquest,
footprints,
flagstaffs,
debris.
Watch from behind your helmet as it crash lands like a comet into the oven,
watch as the glaze that coated its grimy surface, halfheartedly giving it charm,
melts away
Nothing left but the demolding clay that cleanly packaged the wisps of thought,
that tried to let the rain douse its interior, overflowing the dirty water
letting it
run down
the sides
of the pot in streams,
drying by the morning,
sitting on the sidewalk, isolated,
simply existing as other forms of life glance at its cracks with disregard.
Like an imploding Sun, the pot ERUPTS,
the memories coat the walls of the oven,
they burn and fizzle out, leaving the air strung with the scent of smoke and iron.
The odor peels the paint of the other pots,
their cracks begin to show,
yet they roll in shades of indigo, never thinking
to pour their contents and lessen the weight that comes with being a mold of clay.
They hope that the collecting water will merge their voids,
smooth their creases,
and dry in a more solidified form,
come morning.
As the Sun arises in a heat wave
as the moon shies away,
back to its hiding place.
As another pot orbits the moon, hoping to catch gravity,
yet plummeting
and burning
in the atmosphere.