A PARTICULARITY OF ORDER
BY DUSTIN SMITH
I don’t want form to order
the chaos of the world
I just need to make something.
— Josh English, On Form
I began as pure potential;
A lump of formless clay
Molded into the semblance of man
By constant external pressure.
The revolutions of the world
Turned slowly — persistently —
A spinning potter’s wheel,
Gradually shaping me
Under the clay-caked hands of
Unintentional artisans.
Grooves sank into me with each rotation;
Indentations in my soul,
Defined by the infinitesimal
Space between caressing fingers.
Even the absence of pressure
Can leave a lasting impression.
Each contouring carved me — hollowed me —
Left soft, sacramental chasms
That echoed in their emptiness.
There is tragedy in transformation.
The searing heat of the kiln
Hardened me and hurt like hell.
I’ve been moved by people that touched me;
Their fingerprints indelibly etched
Onto everything that mattered.
These subtle shifts in my substance
Desired no articulation of order;
I just needed to make them mean something. | DLS