when once my clay hands began to harden <br /> under the potters wheelded sun <br /> i turned to reach for my shadow <br /> but found only a basket of dried <br /> yesterdays and tomorrows. <br /> <br /> when once my clay feet began to harden <br /> through quarries of stone and silt, <br /> impermeable to all water but not to ink. <br /> i decorated myself with a stylus in a <br /> tattoo shop on st johns and 49th st. <br /> <br /> when once my clay head began to harden <br /> kilns and flames were all servants to <br /> my thoughts and my porcelain pupils <br /> brought light to all like a holy relic.<br /><br />nathan martin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/holy-relic/