Day 1: Woven of Strings

Let’s not talk of souls,

or wholeness,

or hearts.

We are pocket figurines woven of strings;

we pluck loose the ends,

and we give them.

One of mine trails like toilet paper from the heel of a boot outside Boston.

One twists a frozen helix through the sky.

One shares a drawer with dried flowers and ticket stubs.

One twirls a halting dance at the end of a long baton.

One winds years to cocoon him, comforting and constricting in turns.

One, I hope, rests gently in a hand, or swings like a hammock, or a net.

If I know that love is infinite

it is because

I rise

on the web

of cords

I have thrown

and  

I still

have not

unraveled.