Threads
These cotton thoughts of mine;
frayed white lines and webs of string
that groove my teeth with the clean squeaks of a finely able
space to move through,
have no end -
no angle to derive
a valid point or culture;
the lips I douse cotton bobbins with
a Claret heritage.
My thoughts are like the pickled
fingertips of a Dodo in a glass box; dumb with death being my life’s work –
downy feathers of a pillow case
plumped up by a scholarship
to prove that thoughts are seductive
and not something you have
but that you wear.
I have these biscuit crumb thoughts, these Ariadnean splutterings that make a mess of my doodled face
as if they are clues for you;
you outside my head,
who is somehow supposed to be more able
to untangle the threads I can’t.
