(Untitled)
these threads are breaking open the corners of my mouth, red strings reeled inside by some collection of spools and trundles, some loom of tense threads, each word rolling off your tongue, interlocking fibers fastened as the shuttle makes them too much a part, plys and warps and there are too many needles, too many pins holding me in place, without
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the quill and the book and the
indescretion of stone upon which
a little drop of gold does fall,
the cry of a pigeon or moan
of the folded over father, and
beneath these drape'd mysteries
the wine does spill upon the dog
the dog does sit in the corner
curing itself of this indifference
and the bar of light does illuminate
such dust as has been brought
into upheaval with only your
untidy waking -- the covers under
your chin:
pull
-joshua beckman
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