that’s unraveled. You’ve treated me
as gravel, walking all over me. Threadbare
from years of wear. I’m unhitching from
you pulling my stitching. Piling up

on the floor in a heap. I was so cheap. I'm a
masterpiece of falling leaves. The golds are sharp
as swords. The reds have bled their silvery heads
into a matador. And the amber can see the bull

from the tips of the trees. All my colors swirl
into a ghost of a little girl. I'll sew her back again
without the help of a dicky friend. And she'll float
in a paper boat over the horizon -

surprising all of you that said she was unglued!