"Tonala Pottery."
"There, smiling flyers fly the coop.
Worms stare, awed, their eyes desolate as satin,
marking the low border of the flower bed,
where the complications of snails
and green helmets horning with bats
are hidden by the hot breath of a flower.
A bite-sized tiger in the burning glass
steps out of it, the color of snuff,
sniffing the delicious bread aroma of the morning.
It is enough.
The tiger wears a bell.
He's indelible.
The morning knows that he is merciless as morning too,
with the pin cushion holes where his whiskers invade out.
They are spriggy tentacles.
The snail hugs back from the leopard's spotted light.
The worm reflects on sin in the apple morning.
Here is the world, clean on a gray plate.
If a crack threads the cup the saucer weight,
I shall get you others.
Coffee served on a world.
Contemplated, that sky flies forgetfully
on with the flimsy bird.
The noise you heard was our cat washing her bright paws empty."