the woman.
she is no more than
a lump of formless clay,
pure, vast, and unfiltered potential.

he was a songwriter.
promising to sand, shape, and polish.
skimming through her journal and jotting down
shorthand versions of a heart.

he was a stressed money maker
who wanted practical usefulness.
a pillar of support that got only the pleasure
of being part of a palace.

he was a writer.
who got her drunk and scribbled notes as she talked
and called it writing together
after the fact.

he was a teacher.
who only wanted to show her what she could be,
if only
she let him...

from cup,
to vase,
to ashtray,
to bust.

the clay cracks and varnish is sometimes chipped away
fire and tempered shell crushed to dust
only to be reused again,
as flour on a forming table.

the he in these landscapes is not to blame
for readily available medium
calling out for artists hands.

sometimes clay just wants to be clay,
and it has the right to decide,
when it feels like
being something more.