I'm not sure if this poem is finished, but it's what came to me after dinner tonight.
You return to the old poems
and they are as you feared:
Fixed, budged not a jot
since you pressed them into shape,
worked their whirling figures on your wheel.
Glazed, fired, brilliant
on the day of conception, but now
they sit, still and silent, on the shelf
as you whirl through the ages,
dazed, wild, resilient,
and pliable as the day of your making.
You return to your old face,
and it is as you feared:
brittled by time and horror-filled
by dread of becoming
a shell that becomes,
a formable face cupped in human hands,
searched, seen, smoothed, kissed
by lips not of cold, kilned glass,
but warm skin rushing
with nascent cells.