All of this polyglot ramshackle in the stern underpinnings I keep my tongue. The forecast is looming, an act turned into the name of its machine. How stars turn to undoing us, a dropped stitch gone supernova. A needlepoint sampler is all I have left. A grandmother’s compulsory instructions to herself and generations of girls. Keep them safe as nimble fingers forget the use of a thimble. Blood rubies thinning skin stalwart as Jupiter’s eye.
The gap I can’t traverse, the finials of a capital V keeping void for your name. I lie down on one side and wait for it to fill with water that I may swim. By how wide so deep. I finger my sextant to puzzle the horizon. Anyhow, don’t be the tallest thing in a storm. Maybe what I’d crochet for inside a door. So profane. Metal glints to itself under a cloak. The old ones witness change without perspective.
A shelter is a thing that is not able to anymore, a warm quilt staving off a train’s advance. Numbness rumbles unilaterally. Generations of paint flake off a hollow word. I’m not close to stroke grandmother’s right cheek, slack as forgotten dough. She says, there’s a wall that has no use for me anymore. I can’t think of it.