not even the clay can take me away...........

I scrape and push my thumbs into it's dead mouth
the wintery coldness of the terracotta mass
is stark, in this central heated room.
Playing distracted I mould it into leaves and stars
my own body heat lacking though it is, softens

and in turn
the clay mirrors a filled up sponge,
not slightly pregnant with water
but useless air

I knead it, needing it to obey my hands

the two hour class steals me from helplessness
and the dead leading power of temptation
everything slow abandons me

until I put the clay away
then the dusty dirt from my despair rises up again
like a phoenix from an exploding tulip

up and up, to carry me back to the dark.