In my dreams I blow glass.
My breath spirals easily
up the rod,
my lips are loose and supple
as if I'm panning cool notes
into the evening.

And the bubble grows the way dusk spreads out,
like a lover stretching to the Canal
and rippling the water with frantic kisses.

The heat litters my back with sweat, but I don't care,
the charcoal and potash are perfect
and the colour's coming evenly, swinging
a necklace of grapes, a fanning peacock and Arlecchino's cloak
into ruffles that even a curling wave couldn't mimic.

I almost have it - a vase that all Murano will queue to see.
It needs one more breath, her name, only her name…

© Andy Kissane

(first published in Imago)
Andy Kissane's latest book of poems 'Every Night They Dance'
pub. Five Islands Press 2000