Saturday, April 1, 2017

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.





           


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