Punctum: Archeology

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I hold     this clipping

               in my hand of         the man

throwing      a rock & it

bares the      weight

               of clay,      it itself

a glazed       & jagged

piece of    a potter’s work

that has survived      a millennium

& my       friend is my

                father      & my father

is a black-figure

athlete       in my palm, an arm

               whipped       back in a perfect

curve of pitch       & adrenaline      I press

               the clipping       between the

pages      of a book so

               that it      might take

root again      in that soil