there’s a feeling like a fine china
to be looked at – never touched
for fear of breaking, something
you show visitors and dust carefully,
and another, not quite a feeling,
a knife sharpened and honed until it can cut anything:
sweetmeats, the toughest heart, brain and
so sharp it is brittle,
so sharp it shatters on first use.
I was once held in wait,
until all else was gone and used;
and the china becomes another plate,
and the razor-edge is dull.