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.
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