Saima Shah October 24, 1997
Tags: Love
On a hill over by the other side
where a trip of thread lives
there is a twist in the fabric
of this space before me.
Its a little lump of cloth pulled from the weave
rough when my fingers glide over it
that little imperfection
is where I love you.
Sometimes
just to see what will happen
will the cloth of my world
this cloth of many hues
come apart in a spool of thread
in my hand
or will my fingers carry this lump
of thread away
and my fabric remain smooth untroubled
perfect and whole?
I worry and worry
I pick at it and pull;
never strongly enough
to change the weave of my life
for ever or at all really.
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