and in the remnants of what was torn

open seams picked apart millimeter by millimeter
crawling on fine liner legs, all one hundred across gravel
mandibles tearing what was worn

in this pile of threads, pink yellow orange, swished into a pan
azure linens, an inch here a centimeter there, carefully weighed and measured
on bronze scales cast by hand, spinning on an orbit unknown,
an axis fine tuned to sing with the moon

the old one sorted, a pound of scrap, hammer hammer
the old one snorted, two pounds of remnant, crank crank
the old one came up short, three pounds of wool, twist twist

bagged by color
– a mixture of materials spun from stinging nettle, cloudy cotton, silk woven by worms, corn husks, golden flax –
– dipped and double dipped yarns, soaked in cochineal, indigo, blood root, madder, and woad –
– woven cloths, harnesses lifting two at a time, open shed sailing through shore to shore –

in these three bags full
something new was found
the rest of them were put to rest
at peace

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