the needle and the needle done

it was prose

                   sure the sounds o violin
                    pack the surf in a suitcase
                   was it not

seed and burrow?

easier that way. to be too close to bones,
touching the insides where the ideas are knitted
in a loom.

my family was
stitched on the back of it,
out of copper wire, and crushed
sand specks were

dotted over my lovers eyes. in colours of melted
steel and salt ochre.

    my loins were timbre snakes
    threading
    the ocean

were wet
placed in the bucket dervish
and the caterwaul

of sandcastle angels broadcast the rain
from the eastern mark of me.

    the bits of mud my old friend
    collected from the golem

     shape like teeth the outer ridge
     of the loom.

 i ask him questions     [oh God

 what deseeded me, what
 first recluse
 sailed into the heavens on
 a paper jet?]

and he is the silence of an abattoir.


...
but its ok, mum is smoking old laundry
and the cat is coming on the first wave
down.