Clay
O maker of paper and dams formed after minerals of time, teach me to adjust to this bed, varved histories and sensitivities. The gradual now a landslide— love’s ardent professors fail and wait, follow, attest. But no one doubts clay tablets were the first mean of writing. Dust-gray to orange-red, earthenware and stoneware, there’s a task for broken poets: Geophagy. Ravenous, I could stand to be less stubborn. Rocks weather, rise through ledges, clay in my mercenary mouth.
