dadaist

Sitting in a hewn rocking chair under some bastardized H.G. Wells sky
I pricked my finger with the needle again,
and couldn't notice.

I kept my eyes screwed shut,
blocking the blindness
from the horizon-stealing sun
as its incalescence
crawled across my shoulders,
leaving a trail
that smelled like ...

a kiss pressed
against the line of your jaw.

I spread my old-fashioned
embroidery hoop over my skirts
fumbled for my shawl
and pulled it tighter
around me.  

It was cold,
and there were no stars
in today's sky to wish upon
so I covered myself in antiquities
and pulled the red-stained white thread
through the bottom of the fabric
without seeing,
without touching,
over and over,
until the meaning in the pattern
was as lost
as I.