dear reader,
Sometimes when I weave
I see myself as an oil well
the one we watched wondering
what it would look like
if you shot it
whether the consistent movement
would translate
I see myself like that
standing with you
on a roadside
just outside Moab
I see myself as a consistent machine
standing with you
The feeling of ascension
The feeling of upgrading
The feeling of taking a step on a moving escalator going up
That’s the punch these weavings carry
and it’s all ours
how deeply can we exhale dear reader?
how can we be sure that’s all we've got?
with an outpouring into the equinox,
with hope,
