I am as if sewn yesterday. My poems

follow the crooked stitching of 

their genesis. Metered bit by bit. 

Meteored bit by bit,

Thrust a needle against fabric

and call it art. Call it love. Call it

holy. Call it what mom insisted

about TV. Flick the remote

sideways to crumble the 

moon. This is art, too. 

Not a patchwork of dust 

and stars and empty

laughs. Not a thread 

of hope lingering after dinner that maybe today you will finally talk to each other. 

 

This is running loose at the dinner table

yesterday. This is taking the needle

to the wall instead. This is digging in

space for the stars and only catching 

them on the screen. This is weaving

the world together, all by yourself.