A THOUGHTFUL MOMENT

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This thought is the empty shuttle of a loom
­­parting the thoughtless void. Its passage leaves
us dumbstruck at the argument it weaves,
with threads of light that ornament our gloom.

Our being is much like this, felt as a thread
though truly more a point, a needle’s prick
whose stitches pull that underwhelming trick
of clothing hiding bleeding till we’re dead.

No one can claim a tag at such remove,
or know the previous sentence like the next,
though held it may be, as the next unfolds,

and dies, remembered, as it rots in love.
Defiantly a ghost winks through the text,
and we believe in what this mystery holds.­ ­