by Megan Nicole Landre

In the potter’s town,
the sky is a grey sediment;
a malleable Element
milky and stagnant,
and currently devoid
of any artistry.
This, however, does not seem
to hinder the stray Chow,
whose lacerated snout
greets my willing palm.
Nor does it burden
the White mare, which
feeds freely from the
trees that bare unknown,
beauteous Fruits.
Upon the path of a withered sign,
I encounter a desolated Poterie.
Impacted, shattered tiles
line the laid cobblestone walk,
their swirling patterns
resurrecting the flat earth.
The patterns lead me beyond
a ceramic graveyard;
remnants of the
weary work of
an artist.
On the front step of the Poterie
is a note written in a language
that is not my own.
I knock and receive
No answer.