I’ve sewn a tapestry. . .
with barrows of sh*t,
and lacking thimble
–it was a rug destined
to be pulled.
Unironed, and
flimsy defense
from cannon fire–
a cover ill-suited
to race cars
–and the drivers of race cars–
it resembled nothing so much
as a blanket for horse
–just that the rider stayed mounted–
as riders will
when shoes are mud-caked
and the ground beneath shifts
and teems with feral dogs
that snap at hoof,
but revisiting my top hat
(concealing hare, and colored veil)
I chuck it all
and vacation–
setting sail on battle ship
to nearby shore–
I jettison arms en route
–wreck lessly—
hanging onto
the thread
that weaves
~fashioning
different
life lines~
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