The Somnambulist

From airshafts I hear rummage. And summer long. A matter of joint-rot and den, a toothsong constant as a clatter of calves and as blind. The needlepoint is (rootfringe on a dead fig) fine. Concentration here, crosshatched rag and gall, the fibers gouged with stitch-lift. Awareness is like this, the stirring low of swallows banking […]