I am a barrel maker
a
craftsman,
a master of my art
smooth edges, no seams
no rough spots
and I use only the lightest of
woods the
illusion of elegance.
There is a perfection in a piece that
seems effortless
as if the Gods had grown it,
as if the shadows and empty
spaces were the only thing
that knew it,
invisible, seamless,
but
not vacant.
Invisible to all
but
the very
patient
the canister swells in the
heat,
growing full,
a mixture
of nourishment,
of missed opportunities
and not forgotten intimacies,
of longing
and nervousness
grief,
jealousy and enjoyment.
I am the master,
and
the craft
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