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Threads through cracks and windows, drawn across then woven.
Wrapped me wet in a cocoon of fabric.
Sing a song for the spinner.

Dear silkworm, remind me why I'm here.
When I'm tired and want to sleep for a year.

You're a stick in a suit; a nice silhouette; a barefoot wanderer streaking away between rainforest redwood.

Sew she grows.

Dig my toes into the ground, plant them in moss and I'll wait for a sunbeam.
Weightless and shaking under bridges, you're lapping thirsty at stale fog as everything moves by.

Then remember that journey's end scrawled in a dirty washroom stall when August was ending.
Now I'm here, sweeping away dust from the days we were dry.
Skin and hair and fingernails; cavities of little cells.
Capsules of history.

Sew she'll slow.

I'll tug you from grasping ghosts, and you'll suck away my mosquito filled lungs but these holes always grow.
Snap transparent threads, fend them off with twigs until they learn and intertwine.
We are not monsters but we keep pushing in pins.
Here's a thing about some things.

Sometimes I see.

It's those whimsical evenings when the light is right and the streetlamp so perfectly crooked.
I inherit those random waves and empathize with nostalgia.

With you til you whither.

Salty snow.
I know you know.

Tears in our biscuits and through their gardens.
Just walk a little more.

There's a ziplock somewhere with thirteen iloveyous.
Pocket things away.
You're in a ball today.
But I'm not sorry. Okay.

Because that old hiding thing between hemlock hedges, still frozen in cool amber...cracks under footfalls.

And sew she sews.

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