The Hat


the yarn, atlantic-tinged blue 

and sword-hilt gold 

was born from her 

crepe-plastered skin, trailing from 

her fingernails like 

silk woven from the clouds




patiently, the yarn unfurls from 

her outstretched hands, stealing 

silhouettes from the darkened house 

the fragile strings tentatively quiver 

take shape, a

glove for your thoughts 




long toil in the depths of her room, she 

trembles, desperately dismembers her life 

and weaves it into each fiber 

of yarn; the sphere diminishes like Father Time and 

the hat flutters down from ashen hands 

setttles on next of kin, like 

a miserly ghost 




a line of curious succession--daughter , 

granddaughter, nephew, dog

the hat glides down from mind to mind like 

an untamable thought and 

the blues, they wear, and the golds, 

they tear, unraveling like 

the blinding light, thrusting out from 

underneath the clouds 




the fading strings rub the shadows of her 

memory onto temples, foreheads, and 

scarlet-kissed ears, stories of 

crepe-plastered skin and an 

abysmal dark corner, the 

groaning rocking chair, 

her life tarnished but not yet gone, 

a quivering corpse of 

atlantic blues

and heavenly golds 


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