For Akt, In Prison

Which one first to the fire? Who stokes with his oils And his bones and his brush The kiln and the pyre? Who, so pointlessly young, So tragically sired, Can say to the Potter, "My fuel is unfired"? Who, squat on the rack, In the depth of the fire, Can say to the Potter, "My clay is unfired"? For the Potter to bake, And the oven to make Us (kindling and clay) Must our union desire, For when kiln door is pulled, We prove our designs: One, by the firing, One, by the fire.