Buddha of Wedgwood

I have spoken of this before, so what. Of the welter of the world, bowl-shaped, it is so easy to margarita salt its rim and lick.  

I sip.

I let what passes come to. 

I am hopeful, shaded by the spear of hope. Or is hope a basket, am I to collect from basket, weaving...and then, no spear, pear, silhouette of woman, she ever the transducing device, magnetizing minerals. Photographs ultrasonic, umbilical.

From Zoe Leonard, Aerials, 2018 Hauser show in London, leading to more lesbians on Brighton's pebbled beach, another story entirely...

And the root: not when will I be old enough to tell it, the story, stories, but to have one, told to me.