By Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
into the kiln
if clay feels pain
would human flesh
endure in vain
a process that
builds strength
and glazes
proof from
harm
and eye amaqzes
smooth
exterior not rough
gently held against cheek
sloughed
of all
extyraneous
on the wheel
where You make us
finers probing
each now groove
rounded, bent
as steady move
palms that guide and shape
throw out
strips what I can do without
hollow
or solid within
You decide
as pattened skin
glows
with fire
that it keeps
fresh from baking
treasure
spark from outside leaps
suffer nothing, nothing grow
formed by You
with You togo
hand in hand within Your grasp
held in flames
Your fingers clasp
Heaven will heal wounds
but flame
makes the earth begin the game
of the Lover
and the bride
everything else swept aside
