the stone was not
a yielding thing

it held
just as strong in itself
as he was

though he pounded it
and though he struck
all he gained
was powder
his stone had stood

the clay
was damp
it gave way to him
though he squeezed it
squashed it

flattened out
then curled around
embraced his fist

and then
becalmed it

he could not go on
with ire
there was no substance
to resist him

just a moving
and desire
to be the thing
he needed


Poem #491 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

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