35 No, not an icicle to break in frozen hands, Not water just to slake and run away, Not sand for standing patient on your feet, Not air, exhaled and only then breathed in, Not fire which subsists on what it kills -- I am the clay on your rotating disk. Yes, I'm the clay to lose my forms, to smudge -- I stick to fingers, hungry for your touch. I am the clay to take your shapes in spins -- I harden only with your fingerprints.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems