It closes over me, the pilled sheet of stone. When I turn over the snow globe — the sky churns, and my hair stands straight up, a flaming tree. Those two bright wires might meet. They can’t erase us all. The needle pricks me as I wait. Embroider what I know — suture the dark to dark. Or nurse a guttering glint. Old tins, someday I’ll raise the lid. And what? Climb into a field of empty forms? Or shades of centaurs, maimed, loping over the dead white moors? Still-warm ghosts, or worse: I’ll thread your likenesses. Repeat the lonely word.
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