batik

the illusion of making my own control, how silly

I will weave a tapestry with the thread of matter
Patterning history in a flash of orange, the resonant oscillation of Phoenician violet.
I will embroider the fabric of time, a moth-eaten antique
With holes punctuating every memory I will never remember.
I will unwind the old cloth and tie forget-me-knots in the discontinuity of line
(the limits of both sides are not equal to one another and under stress they break)
I will make it a comforter that we will huddle under, whispering,
Covering our heads until the only light we see gaps between the fibers.
We will find patterns in them and call them constellations, though they are only the underside, the reverse of what we made and
Not fit to be seen by our company.
We will spread the cloth over an table made of a broken column.

Our candles dripped white wax on the tablecloth after we dined and we
Dipped it into dye
Revealing a pattern that we made but did not plan.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

i love it that you can say things of the life and heart cradled in a humble sincerity; and if it all has led to knowledge, well good; it could not have been purchased any other way