Sung

from ageless molecules
(that congeal into clay)
pulled thin
and filled with nothing,
but proportioned,
like a geometric theorum
that reinscribes the space around it
in a counterpoised aesthetic,
lifting matter into space
like music into silence,
like the passing shadow of a cloud
across a Sung ceramic pot,
this kind of modestly-perfected form,
which I saw
in their expression,
by the way they moved
and sat beside me
on a bench beside the lake,
breaching solitude and etiquette,
together taking up less space than me
while talking in hushed tones,
words indiscernably expressed
in rhythms, counterweights and profiles,
her steel blue eyes
and heavy silver rings
resting on his folds,
of unbleached cotton
draped across tanned legs,
their breathlessness and calm,
the sound of water,
August air and evening light,
the pace they shared (with me),
the ease with which they left
while I sat sideways
on that metal bench,
Durrell's Aegean blue
perched upon my lap,
and trying not to glance
at them directly,
but drawn to memorize
their formal compilation,
their elegant expression,
pressed separately together,
like a well-proportioned Sung vase
held up against the sun