A blue bowl will hold open for steaming soups, or the brush of tiniest ribs of a feather. Before evening, it reaches its surrounding lip of the horizon around emptiness.

Without transference, without moving, it opens, is open, as shades of blue wash over it.

But its time of wheeling is past, its oil derricks on lunar Earth, its mother-load of clay out of open-pit acreage, its sins of birth, or enormous fires on slopes of the mindful.

Already, a bowl has reached the next stage, in residence on heavy seas, buoyant as an electrical bodily cell, holding blue air that flew in and for a time was home around it.

It offers room, the bowl, as it continues turning blue, as an imprint echoing in space, starting empty before taking anything on.

The bowl has shared the unpronounceable, once a spoon in the remote future has dipped into soup and left filled.

James Grabill
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