A hundred threads
Whitely pass
Into the red curve.
The sea of grass and I survey.
Delicate folds shape the mass
As a cobweb napkin.
I sip daintily at
Stark faces in
The brilliant musk.
This is a struggle to
Recover my black bones
From velvet soul-eating sleep.
Here, inside of a glove
Which always seems to
Have an extra finger or two.
Continuing in a serene orbit,
Just a figure on a rail,
And silver day is an idiot greyhound,
Bounding instantly afterward
Rather like a run in a stocking
But not at all.