holds things in place.
I sweep one corner
then find I live in seven secret corners more.
All corners
firmly tied
down.
The little ones are packing me
away, keeping me tethered.
Why am I so hesitant
to wear a new dress
of this fine weaving? It would stick to me
like smoke. Cling to my haunts
like ancestors.
Silks unravel
from my talking
and trail
down my arms.
I think I’m flying, but
it’s landscape fast forward
and spiders pulling stitches
through the seams.
