The sweet little girl with the calm face
And archaic smile-
The sweet little girl with the fragile slant over her marble-like back-
The sweet little girl sat in the dark halls of time,
With the tall windows tinted on both sides-
A contraposto of life in its sculptured self
And sharp edges
Touching the rays of an aging sun-
The sweet little girl with shaking hands
And delicate arms holding a hallway of the world
Sounds on the glassy outside
Severe to the ear
Scratching to come in
Yet with the sweet little pot
In the sweet little hands
All sounds are hushed
All dreams are put to sleep
And all nerves are put to be numb
Keep the rays off to the side
The spinning pot is not yet ready to be dry,
Muddy to the touch
Smudged under the softest of fingers
Clam in a whirl
For three days
And three nights
Three nights before the water dries out
And all moisture is gone
Three nights before the poor little girls hands crack
With the breaking pot
Dried to the tips
And dried to the nail
Wide-eyed
Votive to the pain
And the screeching in the ears
As the sounds pour in
