Holy Relic

when once my clay hands began to harden under the potters wheeled sun i turned to reach for my shadow but found only a basket of dried yesterdays and tomorrows. when once my clay feet began to harden through quarries of stone and silt, impermeable to all water but not to ink. i decorated myself with a stylus in a tattoo shop on st johns and 49th st. when once my clay head began to harden kilns and flames were all servants to my thoughts and my porcelain pupils brought light to all like a holy relic.