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.