A little poem I consider a charm for myself,
so I call it Trinket.
I love watching the water ooze through the crack in the fern
pot.
It's a small thing that slows time and steadies, and gives me
ideas of becoming, having nothing to do with ambition
or even reaching.
It isn't necessary at such times.
To describe this, it's no image for mean-keeping.
It's no thing that small.
But presence.
Other men look at the ocean, and I do too.
Though it is too many presences for any to absorb.
It's this other.
A little water used, appearing slowly
around the sounds of oxygen and small frictions, that
gives the self the notion of the self one
is always losing, until these tiny embodiments small enough
to contain it.