The Production of Clay Utensils

You reach into my fingertip
nothing but endless ribbon
like a clown
like a clown
my face is painted
molded
made out of clay, focused at the sun,
drying and hardening, cracking,
crumbling at the thought of
... wait, I lost my thoughts,
my head, my eyes, my hands.
My spine, purple with overuse,
untouched clean slate.  And I'm laughing
while watching myself                                    climb
                                                             each
                                         vertebrae
knowing you're bound to
fall.
I respect your determination, but I'll never make sense.
You'll never make sense.