The mug was made by someone

Ella Valentine—a contemporary sculpture

and ceramist. She created this mug

in the form of an elephant;

created? The cup made of clay

where, within, Walt Whitman's body lies—

his soul now resides

in this elephantine cup. It was cast too much

in creation—contributing to its overcast

coloring. Before cupping the clay

Ella claimed having never seen an elephant:

I take up this earth in my hands; cupped

escaping my compression. I must create

that which grasps at what is not—

a ridiculous form that tramples convention.

I strive for something only Cthulhu dreams.

They are drawn to it—its aura;

this creation is not mine to claim

its primordial abstractness.

I ran fast. I ran fast as I could

past the zoo—it was clear the keepers were late

they hadn't fed the giraffe.

Yet they still found my uptown house—

no doubt they intended to prevent me from sale

at the market next morn.

I ignored that wind (during the storm

which didn't cast branch to-and-fro

across my door) or their rapping at my door.

It was in pieces—no, it contained my coffee

so well. I pawed at the mess. Serrated.

I cannot bring myself to its destination

Perhaps, by insidious transaction, I may transfer

their interest to some other poor soul—

it was all.

I sold it to a brown-bearded man's daughter,

to whom it seemed familiar—but it couldn't.

She described it in a passive form of the word elevated.