body of water

i have grown weary of the vase-form,
of the vase as art form,
of the utter saddness of
a useful object
unused.

a bowl is no better~
its openness begging for substance
like a body for soul.

i want to fill it with foil-wrapped chocolates
or river stones
or late-summer lavender seeds

but a bowl is more soul
than body
and how it is filled
is to be done with gravity.

the art of the vase
and the art of the bowl
has become more art
than vase or bowl
and the preciousness of the form
foils the usefulness
of the vessel.

the hand of the craftsman
fills the vase,
fills the bowl
in its making
and the print of the maker
remains through the fire.

such is the art of the art.

i have grown weary
of the body as art form,
of the body as only skin-deep,
of the surface
being the sum of the whole.

i long to be a vessel of dreams,
the perfume of eternity
filling my form;

i long to hold the flowers of ecstasy,
the transcendental soup of the divine

and shatter the artifice,
the self-consciousness
of my art.