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Sans Stock Give Lock
Spiral-woven fibers pad my guts,
carpet my innards and force out a rasp
while I cough out the straying strands.
The hoard I've ingested suggests
an escape to some place arid where
a textile might be sprung from me in time;
with enough small hands to pull and wind,
milling with wide eyes that hover
over the spinning, wooden wheel.
To bathe the lands beneath the shroud
of quilt, intestinal and ground from flesh,
is a faint concern, pressed far from reach,
as the iron pad descends to enclose
now that my surplus of fuzz has been breached,
and there is no longer a softness to cushion me.
