A silver thread pierces my hand,
Gleams in lamplight, my fingers flexing there,
The needle plunging into bleeding skin,
Making a high-pitched, silver sound
Becoming words shining in the flame that they create.
Tarnished words converge into beginnings,
Flame and words, beginnings
In moonlight, fairy rings, clouds across the sky
Entering a sentence that began elsewhere.
The tarnished thread. The hand it pierces.
Hand it weaves. The gleaming
And nothing before. The before it weaves.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.