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Updated: Jan 5, 2023

Mind full of past. Dust collections in

corners. Last year’s spider webs. Last century’s

bus tickets. Trip over fabric piles that

might never be worked. That green velvet

longs for shears, needles, thread, a pattern

– but it’s past time for precisions, hems and darts.

Tear. Rip. Pull. Slash. The velvet

spills her guts in cuts and stabs. The needle

slices through the pile. Marks punctuate

the soft and smooth, then spike the sheen.

Howl in the dark. In the morning get up, shower

and dress. Now mind has chasms, faultlines, losts.

Celebrate the world’s end, the threads each of us leaves.

Suffocating brain cells cluster in the dark.


I've shared an early draft of this poem with the Understory group I've joined recently, facilitated by Charlotte Gann. The poem's probably still not finished - are they ever? - and your comments are welcome. With Wix's Madison's help, it's easy to sign up to the site and make comments now - just click on the box at the top of the home page.

I'd begun to feel anxious about posting, as there are already subscribers. It's great to share work in progress - and the anxiety too. Thanks for reading it, if you have...

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1 Comment

Beautiful, stark, startling and vivid images in this moving poem. I think the word “losts” is a perfect way to describe it.

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