byRobert J. Conley
- somewhere in old Mexico
centuries ago
this clay was wet and formless
an unknown Indian artist
shaped it in his hands
it dried
he died
& now I hold it in my hands
my thumb fits snugly
in the indentation in back of
the figure's head
where once he pressed with his
& something of his spirit
lingers there
& for an instant
stirs my blood
then slips back in the clay
to stay secure and secretive
and centuries away.
From 21 Poems, Aux Arcs Press.