Howard Firkin
You have the letters, several alphabets
and languages; so what can I bring you?
A plot? A character with flaws who rings you?
Someone who says and does and then forgets:
a something blank and white to write upon?
I am your clay. I’m dizzy on your wheel.
I’m canvas, blank and primed, my surface calls.
I’m stony cold until your chisel falls
and hacks me, carves me into something real.
Cicada song by day, by night, I’m gone.

I’m embered in your love; I glow in you,
remembered, real, still warm, and always still.
Breathe on me, oxygen and lips, blow through
and fire me, create, ignite my will.