Dripping Clay

the morning is slipped,
like clay
slicked from rain’s
dreams in your hands,
bringing up water
to shape my skin its dust,
mud, dirt and rock,
your fingers
turn
on morning’s wheel,
pulling new ribs into standing,
your touch of willful, wifely
symmetry
make me a vessel,
a well to hold water
and now a lip
to meet yours



For The Twiglets

5 thoughts on “Dripping Clay

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