Here at the edge
of what I do not
dare not
cannot know,
I am as earthy porcelain
under the potter's touch:
conceived for this conception,
framed of dust unworthy
of this end, but fired
within his love. I wonder
why he claimed me as the cup
to bear this blood.
I received
no reason for my role.
I just was told this much:
the impossible can be,
despite my self-perception.
So
I do not care to comprehend
but only offer up
my thanks. It's good enough
to know that I am known.
