The Night I Met a Clay Sprite

Empty white water basin
and a drain of old brass
steaming faucet running
satin sheets over my fingers...

The rich blast licks the teapot:
Unglazed clay, purple Yixing
Dark and dense, soft draw in my palm--
earthy skin erect, drinking the heat

She quivers in my hand--
rock salt strewn on her smooth torso.
Crystal grains roll along,
tickling her underbelly.

Almost too hot to touch now.
She shivers and begs.
My eyes whiten, widen,
breathing a heavy rhythm.

My grip with force, the salt
now soft beads of her stone sweat.
--excepts my firm flesh fingers.
friction now hungry madness.

Heat all the way up my arm
Spare hand wets the brush:
steaming bristles rounding her spout
teasing her on her rim.

Now frantic, she releases
flurry inaudible growls
to swallow the brush inside her.
I press, sweating, inside.

Now so fragile in my hand
fiendish brush fuck
climbing deeper
my fast wrist
her shiv'ring
convulsions
thumb
on
wa-
-ter
spout
Squeeze.

...

Once again just dead clay
rinsing under cold water,
I catch my breath and return
to the tea party.