Some Questions, and: A Bucket Forgets Its Water

Some questions

Who first asked it?The sand or the footprint,the remembering or the forgetting?*

A house, a door, an hour— which is frame, which picture?*

Where found, old grief-joy,your salvage-yard windows and shutters,your emergency, your emergence?*

Me, you / us, them—whatmolecule cell creaturecame first to feel it?*

Was it painful?*

How came separation to chisel,to cherish, to chafe?*

Hammock of burning carbonlife wove from,hammock life slept in,unraveling—

did you find us useful,interesting,comic?*

Will you miss them,the cruelty and hunger,the manatees and spoonbills,

awe's inexplicable swaying?

A bucket forgets its water

A bucket forgets its water,its milk, its paint.Washed out, reused, it can be washed again.

I admire the amnesia of buckets.

How they are forthright and infinite inside it,simple of purpose,how their single seam is as thin of rib as a donkey's.

A bucket, upside down,is almost as useful as upright—step stool, tool shelf, drum stand, small table for lunch.

A bucket receives and returns all it is given,holds no grudges, fears,or regret.

A bucket striking the mop sink rings clearest when empty.

But not one can bray.