Attempt To Trace A Small Thing As It's Turning
Loneliness is a hungry machine & she cooks. Her crooked seams have held my attention:
Who is it that I remind you of? Say, “Oh my stars,” and it’s your dead mother’s mother. Wake up beside you and the way you watch my nose as if it’s your own. The one you’ve always told me was so hateful.
I don’t have an eye for color, can’t feel the selvedge edges intersect before unbolted. The log cabin has a basement and in it she is listening.