I smell the wet clay you are spinning into vases—
you are waiting for someone to bring
bright cactus flowers to put in them, you look up,
you are blowing on the end of my cigarette.
This happens every so often,
and I don’t mind it so much:
a story about a man who pressed his thumbs
into the skin on your chest.
Leaving red clay marks.
You are still laughing.
The kiln is hot.
You rinse the clay from your hands,
push them into
a rag hanging from one of the hooks.
My cigarette has gone out, tossed into the desert.
You, you who take coffee
with slices of lime.