Deep in the sheets,
we are weather, we are
a narthex collecting it's keep.
Reaching into the nests, there are hands.
Holding the outcome at the breast,
dipping into the before moment.
bundled live wires
tried to dismiss the commonality,
Hibernate? Not in the least.
Spring happens in links
The riddle (translated):
Felt spreads out from scrubbing
There will be a songbag of pipe cleaners.
Twisting riles the dimmer switch
silly sag of a winesac – that blown up bladder –
Erupting and gorged
The craft is happy.
Nothing strums the fabric into butter
stretches the later fear of speech into whipped willingness.
It was morning. Or spring.
Or any one of those things, who knows?
It's just that I promised someone we'd start this way.
Materia Prima is the primal material the alchemists believed sourced the world.