I’m a little American-made tea-pot, short & pigmented clay
made from dust & human tears.
I was fashioned by an unseen hand & hardened in a kiln called day
& left to chill overnight, to settle here
I am found where I was formed. The visitor knows what to do:
place green leaves into my open heart,
fill me with water, place me upon the fire – find that I am
trustworthy, not consumed by the flames
sit & wait
I am Schrodinger’ s tea-pot
never boiling when watched
to trees & leaves
& a city burning
in the hills beyond
listen to the wind as you wait
smell the distant catastrophe
When I get steamed up, I shout & rend the sky above my mouth apart
with a fragrant plume
Remove me from my tormentor, tip me (20% at least) over
& pour out what you desire;
A sip of kindness, a draught of comfort, a flavor of eternity,
a remembering of home
Go back to that city.
It once was your home.