These are my cloud lines. These my crow’s feet. I have blocks of linen, ordered, compressed. A pale blue fabric that sleeps across the sewing room table. I watch spools
Spin. Simple meters. Sometimes I decide to rain. Sometimes I just sit
back to watch the sun
set behind silhouettes.
I wear scarves in my hair, to keep it, pulled back. My arm gets caught in the machine.
Rips two new holes, I swear. Shit. I’ll have to sew with new sinews. Stitch up this setting. Measure twice, cut once. Drawing moths close to mouth, these are
My painting waves.
My cumulous light.
Sewing room order.
Blocks of water. Liquid salt. Liquid man swaying compressed into one and another. One in another. Oh, how I love you, wrapped up in blocks
of fabric, drawing room door close. Behind it there are lines, (whisper this)
I open door close. I reach with my lips. I read, swaying on the coat rack. Tweed
and timely pocket watch pocketed. I am between the lines. Stripes on the home-
made apron. This is lip gloss. This is warm apple baking pie. These are smoke
blemishes. No, not blemishes. Simply turn around points, curlicues.
Falling off the kitchen wall, the rabbit ate my drawing wilt-flowers. Tiny bites, served warm, as if to say “see what’s missing.” I tie yarn around the stems. Marionette the tomatoes and snap peas. Vines twirl. Up-twine attached to the gutter. Loose the green
Fingers at both ends.
Pick bodies for the harvest. Hide peeled down one side. Chlorophyll fabric that sleeps across the dining room table. The plump breasts of fruit doze. This is how we dine. This is how we find pleasure. Blocks eat waves of organic fabric. Eat clouds with apple pie.