Linen Cartography

1 December 2013

Between ridges of rumpled cotton terrain
time is hemmed
by 300 count cliff faces
and the stubborn warmth of rest

loitering in soft whispers of ducted air
the feather-spun desert assures me
there is no need
at the other end of the eggshell blue plains
over the distant ripples crafted
by seismic sleep

silver watch-hands cannot scale mountains
now is mine, in this woven womb
this oasis of weight and fibres
my contented crease
between skin, breath
heavy fingers
buried springs and wooden bones

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