And elastic is smooth as it stretches layers of red, blue and yellow                                     pressing pigment into flows                          



             then snapping liquid fingers back into orientation, back into dead skin. 

The grip closes in and folds into knuckles,           bulging knuckles that bend,                

plastic in the mass of clay               


smooth, plastic fingers                                                                                                          

                                                                                creasing the surface from the inside, out

           coaxing delicate contact more than any finger could                                                                



                 inflating separation in from the side 


light curls out from the underside, an underside where weighted tack


                                                                       sticks the damp clay surface              


         splitting under plastic spread, perfect tears outline drifting, foil islands.        


Then brittle edges edge into kneading,              into aggregate rhythms,  

                                     gasping light into the smallest of surfaces.


                                                 Then nylon skins saturate smooth, taut, flatness


    spreading weight in perfect full contact—fast and simultaneous with the

                                                                     cheeks becoming humid

                                                           tuning motion,                  then slowing,              

out along the side.



                 And in writing pivoting momentary orderings and inclusions,                              

                          partially terming                

       landing short                        



    terms that ride into contours, then return a warm slack,

then breathlessness starts to hold a beat.