Poet Potter

words are
jumbled cells of clay
in the poet potter’s hand

the wheel spins round and round
mere clay in the potter’s hands
mere words in the poet’s mind

the neck wobbles   collapses
sinks to the bottom

the potter remodels
words spin
taking a shape of their own

till the finished piece is ready
for the fire
of the editor’s kiln

Carolyn Wilker

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