Acknowledge the lump of clay on the pottery wheel for what it is: a lump, full of too much and unformed. You hands work it into shape, your hands work it into collapsing. Your hands build again. You make too much. Things get messy. Maybe a vase with a Pisa Tower's belly, or a mug sprouting handles unti it is spider. We are too precious about these first moments of possibility. That is the first thing I stress to other poets. You cannot be precious about the first draft. You cannot expect a body with all of its bones and sinew, ready to run. Resist the urge to immediately abandon these fragments. You may not use all of these things. You may build it all and need only a tooth. Or a vein. You may only have a head, the thick of thigh, or if you're lucky, a heart--bloody and rolling.