what it is to use my hands
to make
to make a thing
which can be
so easily shared
by sight
by touch
a thing which
is meant to be used
what it is to use my hands
to make vessels
for meals or plants
or thoughts, or dreams, or space
what magic it is
to make ordinary things
which need no
event nor occasion
to exist
it pulls my thoughts
away from poetry
but what more evidence
is there
of the functionality
of poetry
than the fact
that as much magic
as anything else
may bring me
i come back, always, to verse
as though without it
i cannot quite
understand anything
narinda heng 