needle fate- prick the hand of
blind sewer/ machine of
the stars, over and
under (the clouds are a
garment, the dawn knows
its place) and wake
the dreamer- we're
all consenting to
vain repetition, old ladies in
a sky-blue parlor,
the ritual of knitting
fabric realities to don
the heads of our grandchildren-
our fingers are like
constellations,
in nebulae of minds
ticking tongues atomic clocks
synechdoches of cosmic houses-
needle fate, bleed the life
in rain and cold and death.
death is a pause after pain
that wakes the dreamer.
in wrinkled linen, soiled silk,
coats fodder for moths,
the needle is small
an old book memorized
and forgotten when a scarf
adorns the neck of beauty.
i hope i'm making heaven's
curtains, and my shirt will become
wings.