Potter

Your whole body has a fullness or a gentleness destined for me. When I move my hand up I find in each place a dove that was seeking me, as if they had, love, made you of clay for my own potter's hands. Your knees, your breasts, your waist are missing parts of me like the hollow of a thirsty earth from which they broke off a form, and together we are complete like a single river, like a single grain of sand.