Linens
pin-pricked, the shadow in my eyes,
fills up the shape of you and I,
I pour into you, that molten tide,
tilted so gentle, mercury in your mind
shear and ghosting, like long lost linens
threaded back together, with new fingers
I parse your strands, and weave-back once more,
I take back what’s mine, what was yours before
three shipments, and four, and five after that,
I count my spoils, my love, my regret,
I find myself lacking, of all but one,
all that is will be conquered, by my hand or none.
