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Loom

At her loom

a gore of gilded wounds,

tongued slowing fingers

sucking silk from bones,

skeins knotted, drawn and strung

from eye to nameless star.

Tossing back

cold tittering death,

by mouth, she shatters

(swallowed still)

smooth tipping glass

she casts her thread,

one-eyed cloaking

white-shouldered ghost

shroud's lonely vagrant

crumpled, leaning-

leave- swept attic's

sleep, no bleeding

needle's sky pricked

eave hangs where

dawn's beam sang heavy,

where she waits.