[in the glossy hour after]

In the glossy hour after our fingernails found
the studio wall, I wondered if this was it –
if after thirty years mapped in seasons charred
desolate that autumn was never about the leaves.

Right. I understand Dorothy now. Her theory of heel
clicks, her idea that to change something you change
its scene. What about a tornado could make you want
to touch me? There was no disaster, just clay and kilns

and a belt loop made from brute force. Can we call
that a recipe? I understand the bliss of leaving
Kansas, of feeling air and storm and star breath
fume beneath me. You flicker with it. In this yellow

brick light you, my potter, are incendiary. Surrounded
by all these ceramics, we live in the infinitive. There is no
need for past or present distinctions. It’s as if we forgot
the craft of the cowardly, we only build what we want

to see; a windblown dog, an emerald city, your apron
torn and fall a fugue that funnels and funnels inside me.