the hole i push the needle through
is a mind’s eye vision held of yester-me
or a decrepit picture of future-me
and the present buckles in accordance
a stitch in time saving nothing
i want to pull at it
until it frays
and pull it from the displays
until i have blinded myself in the evil eye
and marched on cyclopean
with odin wisdom
for me to scatter
hung upside in the headrushing blood of my own gravity
i have stitched the word home
i have made a cushion
i have pricked my finger
i have repaired trousers
i have done something metaphorical
and thrown a magic spell into the mix
to make this action a translation
that draws close the old and the new and the now