O maker of paper and dams
formed after minerals of time,
teach me to adjust to this bed,
varved histories and sensitivities.
The gradual now a landslide—
love’s ardent professors
fail and wait, follow, attest.
But no one doubts
clay tablets were the first mean of writing.
Dust-gray to orange-red,
earthenware and stoneware,
there’s a task for broken poets:
I could stand to be less stubborn.
Rocks weather, rise through ledges,
clay in my mercenary mouth.