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The folds of our clothing
Damp with mouths warm, animal air
Heart beaten heat making many breaths stale
Low fog in the stitches, and hanging on strings

Soon mildew garments in abandoned house backyard
Become yellowed rags, dew-dotted
Where rusted clothes pin spring soon snaps
and spoiled wood crumbles
or at last line breaks

And someday soil chews the fibers gently
Making mud of memories before baking

Come summer a clear dirt clot bursts
with dust under unknown shoe, then
Cold coming all green things lay down brown
And sink into unknown earth

Take from my heart's deepest well
its reddest blood
Each long draw subtle scraping
with bucket clanging, scooping out

Let my voice creak and rust
a high and shaking pulley
So your little thin-rope
to greater depths may go

>>8260857
not bad