We bought a shallow bowl.
            About two inches, bottom
to rim; maybe ten across.

Ceramic, hand-painted, glazed,
            yellow at the lip, then blue,
a space, then blue again,

the sides a grid of rust
            and gold, the bottom
a pattern that flips: first

a chain of circles, then a grid
            of leaves, each leafy
crossing a drop of blue

capturing some other blue,
            which captures in turn
the rust and gold.

What would it hold, a shallow bowl?
            Most days, nothing.
Then nothing less than all (it flips),

that thorny thing of knowing
            more than oneself
is real.

We bought it in Italy
            honeymooning one year late. 
The pattern on the bottom makes it deeper

than it is. Run your finger
            ’round the rim: where
it’s chipped, the glaze is gone;

feel the mud
            of which it’s made.
A shallow bowl that deepens.
            The price we paid.