2.
The Seduction of Dolly Grey

She dipped the large light piece
in and out of the blue-gray slop
with a practiced motion.
The fine, bone dry porcelain
sucking at the glaze in one
intake of breath.

It was dry before she set it down,
her thumb and finger leaving
their signature on the pot's
footed bottom.
She reached for another,
did the same,
then another,
and another,
until rows of amazonian guides,
each clad in its blue grey robe,
rested lightly on fresh washed boards.

She hummed a tune while
cloaked figures crowded close.
Flat pieces squatted,
slender dancers perched,
others stood, waited, hid.
She expertly dressed
their feet, then gently placed
each one strategically inside
on the white painted shelves.

The confined buzz grew louder
as the gaggle settled on their points,
the kiln groaning under
the weight of her recent life.

She stood before the open
hearth, hesitated for a moment,
reluctant to relinquish control,
then with a sudden
upbeat lilt, and with the gaggle
murmuring muffled support,
she closed the heavy hinged door.

1.
The Cloning of Dolly Grey

The large clay ball slammed
onto the turning wheel.
It immediately grabbed,
jerked once, then settled
into an eccentric whirl.

Strong, big-veined, hands dipped
into the slurry and roughly
pushed at the clay.
The clay resisted for just an instant;
hands bullied softly, then coaxed
the clay into a perfect, whirling circle.

In quick succession, he thrust
three fingers into the center,
squeezed with both hands,
and pulled up and in,
the clay climbing, turning in his hands.
He stopped at mid height,
dipped again into the wet slurry,
and repeated his movements.
He leaned back to judge the large,
thick based, cone-shaped, cylinder.

Satisfied, he slipped one hand
into the spinning hollow cone
and gently pushed outward,
the outside hand mirroring his action;
the round belly quickly bulged.
He reigned in the neck,
then expertly bent and finished
the edge into a soft thick lip.

The wire cut cleanly;
two fingered hands lifted,
and the pot joined
(on a very long board)
thousands of like memories.

3.
The Conversion of Dolly Grey

The noise is low, constant,
muffled by the heavy,
thick walls of hi-fire brick.
The steady toneless, drip of the oil
onto the hot stepped plates
ignites with soft hissing sounds,

The flame snakes
through the kiln, weaving
and turning, its tongue washing
everything with brilliant yellow heat.

Catching the rhythm of the flame,
the pieces begin to move.
They swell and sway, and
shimmer and dance,
change and meld until the final
brilliant hue is written
and nothing is the same.

At the top of the pulsing stack,
the flame reappears.
Bright orange and flush with change,
it triumphantly leaps six feet
into the night air before abruptly
vanishing into the darkness.