The gull of leather lover s thread unraveling the passion stems of time. And I recall a pitch that went astray and plundered down the fossil well. And I recall the child s refined and pissed-off glare as he watched his baseball drown. He sang a cursing hymn to twenty feet of hollow darkness clove until a lofty breath unveiled the soft stacatto touch when echo called upon his whipping breath. It stings the onion eyes to answer belly rhymes that swing for days and never have to wonder why it hurts.
Days stick in the mind .
Bedtime always left my belly hungry, but food could never fill the hole, or quench the eyes. It wasn t home, just a getaway from sticky words that make children cry. Knitting always culminates in sleep. The flipping twirls blanket the skin, and woven threads become a polished home to the eyelids of little boys. And I always curled my legs underneath to shield them from the rain.