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The copper basin catches water from the clay.
I watch the ripples shiver, watch them smooth away.
We took the heavy hour and broke it on the wheel,
Milled it into minutes just to see what it would yield,
To hold the running river in our hands.
But water only listens to the sand.

So show me the piece that cannot be cut.
The sudden dark when the eyelids shut.
We chased the knife down to the floor,
Looking for a room without a door.
The bottom of the breath, the final bone.
The smallest piece of time to carry home.

I press two fingers down against my hollow wrist.
There is a space inside the rhythm we have missed.
The radial vein rolls under the callous of my writing thumb.
My flesh predicts the quiet before the next beat even comes.
We needed a word for the bottom of the well.
The silence dying underneath the iron bell.

So show me the piece that cannot be cut.
The sudden dark when the eyelids shut.
We chased the knife down to the floor,
Looking for a room without a door.
The bottom of the breath, the final bone.
The smallest piece of time to carry home.

We wanted a floor we could stand upon.
But the floor falls out, and the math rolls on.
We split the seed, and the center is a breach.
We thought we could hold what was always out of reach.
We were wrong, of course. We were completely wrong.
But God, it was a beautiful song.

Just a fraction of a fraction.
The empty air between the hammer and the strike.
I wait for the drop to fall.
The blade goes down.
And the floor isn't there at all.
It just goes down forever.