A body of wound
threads, I resign to him,
for this is routine
when I must lose
my breaths to
the morning bind,
an aubade to
the stuff of me
that grips
too tightly.
I allow his
arrangements –
an armature
erected, painted
by silk and hemp.
Hanging desires:
the sweet
of torque,
the defiance
of gravity,
(the paralysis
I always
resisted).