These moments happen. Suddenly –
a stitch drops off
the needle, bares cold the metal.
Those clacking sounds. Cease.
And when you look through
yourself in the mirror, the silver
sheet is only an ugly face. A thin lip.
A pleat creased,
starched into another pant leg.
There is no lace
in the hinge of your knee.
But there is yes
flat as linoleum, yes graver
than a diamond,
Yes in a cattail grating
on the sleeve of a reed.
“Interlude (for Domestication).” Monolith. 1.1 (2010). Print.