clay

Clay

“Keep still and hold that pose for me.”
The sculptor pauses in her work,
walks over to her naked muse,
tweaks wrist and ankle, tilts the head
a fraction of an inch. Again
goes back to molding, white and black,
the passive block in front of her.

Finger to clay-stained finger, they
embrace when the day’s work is done,
when image has been wrought from raw
material, when the idea
has hardened to the fact, when form
has from its cell of thought escaped
only to fall for vision’s trap.

The muse puts on his clothes and leaves
the light on in the studio.
“Keep still and hold that pose for me.”

published on the umass amherst poetry club blog in october 2018

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