Porcelain Nocturne

William Fargason

Here, it always rains. No matter. We share an umbrella,
the branches of a tree, the light from the moon. Imagine

the moon as a tiger. This doesn't change the moon.

No matter. She is glazed ceramic. No matter. I trust
her hands in the clay. She pulls a tiger from the kiln,

still hot. The moon was never, can never be a tiger,

no matter how long our hands work. Imagine the moon
as clay. The moon is clay. No longer alone, we mold

each other again into night. We add another stripe to the tiger.