I once wrote in secret a novel about clay pots across a span of prehistory and where I could imagine the people who made them, a void stature and cold upon a nearby hillock, to become enfolded in time, lesson by lesson by lesson, until we are inured of context.

I once wrote a collection of poems about a teacher I loved in my youth. He blessed me with a strata of doubt, wherein the point was to subvert but never once. Each poem a dialogue between the two, me, an invented authority albeit nurturing, about my own unwillingness to say yes to anything. Even a child understands the malleability of clay.