In A Sweater Poorly Knit

your flute, weave your colored yarns. Boil down the fruit to preserves in mason jars. And the books are over due, and the goats are underfed, the trap I set for you seems to have caught my leg instead. You're a door without a key, a field without a fence. You made a holy fool of me and I've thanked you ever since, but she'd come circling back, we'll end where we begun, like two pennies on the train tracks, train crushed into one. But if I'm a crown without a king, if I'm a broken open seed ...

 

 

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