Clare
Bonetree

                        We were talking

                        about roundness –

                        imperfect, curvaceous,

                        delicious, whole,

                        self-describing,

                        self-owning

                        roundness

                        of oranges, women,

                        planets, artichokes,

                        beachballs, marbles, glass eyes,

                        the letter O;

                        the shape a mouth makes:

                        O, O, O, O, O,

                        oh no! – and yes –

                        contradictory containers

                        for desire;

                        and about the question

                        of how to grapple

                        gloriously,

                        with the impossibility

                        of fully conveying

                        the hole – or the whole –

                        of it on a canvas,

                        on a flat square,

                        on a round world.

                        Our conversation

                        flowed, rocked

                        back and forth,

                        ideas rising and

                        falling on the waves

                        of our breath.

                        Sometimes

                        currents crossed

                        eruptions of laughter

                        you could not catch,

                        lapping at the shores

                        of our experience.