​It yields to the touch and picks up surface residue.
 
It knows that there is more than this but in its current state it was the only way it can think to interact. Its future form as yet undecided, it sits tight and imagines multiple possibilities.
 
Soft, succulent, sliding from the warmth and work of hands
Bust or bowl
Bowl or bust
Brazen with a clear ping when tapped
 
The world is not a surface: it knows this well. It remembers long tense periods of great heat and pressure, uncertainty and transformation. Splits and ruptures have been the making of it.
 
It yields to the touch and picks up surface residue.
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A Coin and its Other Side

My eye caught the sliver of a glint of metal. It was a hot day and the tarmac on the road was oozy and soft. A coin was merged in with the road, sucked in so that the only differentiation was that this little bit of the road was a perfect gold circle, glint-glinting in the sunshine. I bent down and admired with satisfaction how the matte black tar and glinting gold were seamlessly a surface.
I pushed one side of the coin and it yielded under my weight, sinking and see-sawing the other edge up out of its sticky burrow. I pried the coin free. There, sitting perfectly in its place, was the shadow of its other side.

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