Every Hollow Holds a Hallow

Between the master craftsman and the apprentice, indenture was the cutting apart — in zigzag — of identical versions of the binding contract. Around the bonfire’s acrid spiral, you wonder about the axis, the iris, around which the curve will be widening. There is a ship, or there are ships, reserved for rising apprentices. A ship is a vessel larger than a boat. In a ship, people and goods go across a sea for various reasons I can’t go into here. In the illuminated times of apprenticeship, one’s craft derived from apprehension, the getting hold of something physical or mental, through a motion both glacial and elusive. It was the shape of things to come. A master craftsman took a bite reminiscent of a mountain range. It was a binding contract, whether covered in sunlight or rain.

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