Threads

Threads that are worn through, idle affairs.
The sky is an ungrateful fabric and the clouds make darts
in the cotton. That's how I see it that's how.
It wrinkles a little more, the forehead, to see the evil
showing through the tissue's color.
Then over that withered other,
until it covers the curled feet
alongside a rotted frame.
I don't want to see the feet, my beautiful feet
under the needle's guide, biting out a little house
an afternoon of how beautiful I was! seated on your knees,
sighing.