Seams

Fingering the pile
of your fur,
I always play with seams.
I rub them, fondle them.
I mine: I wear them down.

Now it’s dark,
I hold it for you:
one end of the sky.

You unfold it,
shake the other end.
Loose planets tumble.
Star republics fall.

We scoop them up,
and marvel at their
sinuous perfection:
our parasites of memory and joy.

Every one’s a
moment in a
long-forgotten world,
preserved in the sky’s deep cloth.

Tongue licks over your seam,
lingers over the fold.
Tonight the miners are away:
for them, today’s a holiday.
But the fabric of the body’s
bearing gold.

 

© Dennis List