"Our acts are attached to us as
its glimmer is to phosphorous.
They consume us, it is true,
but they make our splendour."
(André Gide, Fruits of the Earth)

this night sky has no stars, is bracketed in black


by words that spill off shelves, is more than this,


has Gide's remainder in my cup, his least drop of water


in my sip along Satie, beside my lip-to-vessel press,


a pourwithoutadrip of reaching into flames,


of whitehotheat that captures colour on the bowl,


the gesture of a potter buried in the still-warm calm


of sipping tea from rakued form


with Gide along Satie


consuming me

"The knowledge that you are brave and strong
enables me to leave life without regret.
Take my joy. Let your happiness be
to increase that of saying to yourself,
'It lies with me.' "(AG, 1897)