Flat
One facet, plane on many minds, ripped
to disc long ago cast to the wind,
Torn asunder from the first spreading
of fog above the pond,'
in which, as a cloth,
whole with edges held topstitched, as
a hanky, for snot, beautified
to prove fine use of twine,
twisted from spider kites,
this, so finitly soft thread
thinking wisdom won,
we do be alive,
against all odds.
left to learn if we wish
"How to Work Woven Wheel Stitch"

eh, is this not the old known since needles?
Let us wind a woven rose.
With only bits of thread from wren's nests.
Here.
The place, a Town of Weaver's, at piece work
since surviving, or reviving, mayhap making peace

- final line, taken as a great notion
- to jump in to the currency and loose
- the bowels of enmity in amity. Being as I am.

there is a gap, well, as the pause, prior, to

- Walter Mitty, in the Forties, as a child
- think of that, could you,
- sure, every body is a rockstar-like hero

a step that may be falling. And always ar-aises
this option ai ai ai
midfall or flow past jagged pasts, reality stiffens
at the thought

Step light, step right, leave no trace
but having been, words abound to patch
the rip through reality
reproving the existing realm we reason on through
veil after sufi veil,
veil after holy veil
veil after right used curtain - torn asunder
a million words ago…

had Kafka had the will to leave nothing behind,
perhaps, this fact,
that we know we may metamorphose,
should prove Sam Harris a little bit right,
there is no free will at the end of faith.

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