Enough of lips, spinning fire, perfection from breath, of vases the length of femurs, bowls never meant to hold anything weighted. You have no speckling skin, no scars. Your surfaces are abalone, stretched smooth as blades. Where is the crack, the beveled intimacy of fracture? Enough of your furnaces’ false sun: you love what is fragile, beauty always on the edge of shattering from your own lung.