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Jar Song


How could I calm the ache
that drifted through my sleep?
A plain ceramic jar,
rounded at the lip,
seemed to offer hope.

It stood there in the dream,
complete, outside of time:
a heavy brown-gray shape
on a table top—
no chairs, no floor, no room.

I rolled the coils of clay.
I looped them on the wheel.
I spun and smoothed, my palms
clay-pale and slick with wash.
I watched the vessel grow.


Don Bogen

The Yale Review

October 2018


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