with partner lyttlejoe

'potter and his clay'

the potter flung the clay hard on the table and kneaded it like a madman

digging, pressing, squeezing,

in and out 'til not one air pocket could be found.

on the wheel it became alive beneath his fingers,

oozing wetness into his open palms

stretching, opening, folding under, moulding to his mind's image,

when he had done all that he could he gave it to the oven

out it came, hardened almost the same but for a cut on the lips-

the vase had succumbed to the fire's kiss

with disappointment, he felt it was not his vision

yet there it stood, his skill achieved to perfection