I.
Loose threads
reach down my rib and cross
the bone, the cage
of ink my body is; and then
II.
travel through the needle’s gaze:
to mend,
yes. Of strands and knots, let’s say
a history
of stitches makes the garment whole.
For possibility:
III.
a hole. What is cataracts,
after all,
but a waterfall before the passage:
IV.
like seeing, the philosophy of the divine.
Like culture
waiting for its alphabet,
V.
banal, this body, inappropriate
Frankenstein
of formalities, decorated
as salt
thrust into oblivion
to bride
of all things, clarity. To be
that skin
VI.
effigial, looming in darkness
thick as flour
turning on a wheel.
Somewhere,
water rises water falls. We make our bread
VII.
of yeast and dialogue.