Bound around fingers, a twisted ligature emerges
under March light. You bring your palms ashore —
prow cleaving a settling tide —
accept the cradle, commence
weaving alterations. I detect metamorphosis,
as though orange-flaked caterpillar
has scaled the milkweed leaf,
or sun crept determinedly to naturalize
the dusk in leaf-clogged eaves.
An ennui entraps me then
and stretched white yarn becomes
a snow-stopped plain, an enervating slap
of leaden waves, seagulls screeched over carrion,
dust on the sofa’s dark arms.
Clock drags the sun along,
shadows are a deceptive place, with stuffed corners
and secured doors, hidden chairs and alley cats —
smiles tooled to razor blades.
I slowly furrow my lands — uncertain terrain —
acknowledge your incorporated cities against mine —
carefully resift structure, lest the cradle should fall.