Here lye the lost pots of Pompeii, and among the dead they rested for two thousand years with burning ash and crocodile tears. But rain and wind and snow, prevailing gusts of daring trends, they were revealed by chance and manipulation. Perfect vessels the lot except one inferior pot, thrown by the hands of god, not man, who smoothed their earthen bend. And I merely walked along to find them peering from the sand. A vase, a pitcher, and a sconce, with black and white motifs, an octopus and an ox. When I looked down at my foot, I could not help but feel their pain in among the soot. For when the earth ends these ceramics will be lost again.
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