And Made of It

East, enter potter under
whose hands the world
turns clockwise.

West, counterclockwise,
say tradition meaning
means nothing,

no blown breath nor big pull.
In the name of is what it is,
sun casts the shadows

as themselves for a change.
To speak to into or to
through this needs more

than my little muscles.
Perhaps a handle.
An as if turned to music,

slurry sieved to slip.
Here are my hands
for pulling the walls up.

Here is the air
will cause a wobble.
Rib to tip in the direction

of rotation, murmur,
momentum, tell you
What. I tell you What.

Centred, I am ready
for an opening.
But for a throw of,

or thrown off, or
to or for or from.
Kick throw repeat

is my prayer
for a pliable vessel.
I have never seen

a child unquiet
while watching
the wheel.