Beached on white Formica
Am I allowed to touch your shell like forms
So beautifully created
I want to touch you, run my fingers round you,
Hold you up so light flows through you,
Feel, in my hand
That hard fragility born of blistering heat
And the skill of she who knows and can control
The blaze of your viscosity.
A twist, a turn, a flourish
And it’s done.