pale blue sky, power lines, trees
and pottery bowls, glazes catching the sun. you think of them
before colored markers and pens found their home inside them -
just clay, red brown or grey
on the wheel, spinning around
the potter's hands as he dreams of the evening
yet to come, imagines his lunch
in a brown bag, pastrami on whole wheat bread,
the open air breeze from the window above. the slow whir
of a ceiling fan - many things
that run: deer, cats, the unleashed dog chasing birds,
chasing squirrels around trees,
the slow wave of evergreens on a berm
with its house underneath. inside, a woman at rest
breathing hard, his wife
at home, the bedsheets pulled up to cover legs
unshaven for weeks. the thin grace of fine hairs curved, bent
or straight, resisting the flat press of flat sheets,
playing with crackling static and sparks -
so soft. he thinks
how much he prefers his hands touching her legs
running up and across, chasing her sex -
how much he misses that
sitting at work, the wheel which now makes
his moment to moment, his scrape after scrape
of clay that's not needed,
dyes and glazes and oven heat waiting as patient
as short, even breaths and tapping feet:
tap-tap, tap-tap on the concrete;
these sounds a chant of unseen things
and words never spoken by flesh into shapes.
not yet two round lumps with green and blue stripes,
and curved smudged dots. not yet
your useable knicknacks.
Friday, April 18, 2003
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