'Ceramic Lunes' (revised)

The clay turns. It's beating against my hands imitating a heartbeat. Thumping, off center-- too tired of this year to center clay. Red, like wounds, but pulling away from edges-- another ruined bowl. Plain blue cup made exactly for my hand by my hand. On pants: glaze, clay, and pieces of quiet carried around daily. Gazing into revolution, metal-plastic turntable and slip-- there's my peace. Hard to believe the glaze--chalky and milky-- becomes glossy bright. I'm too cowardly to sleep, he said, when pots need throwing. Words drown me, clay conquers thought, then drowns under my hands.