after Vonnegut
 

She sits before the TV screen

and needles russet comedy from cloth.

While the re-run witch

talks through her laugh

and zap,

unravels time and space,

she fades into the ad biz of the age.
A million bony fingers

stuff gray fluff

into her carapace of cloth,

but the fabric of her mind

is much too rough;

the slightest cut

unravels it from thought.
While our interstices bleed

ice-nine into the cradle of

her life; while the digits

of our thought embroider time

and curliques of space

onto the skinship of her mirth;

and while we laugh,

say “so it goes” until we drop;
The grinning lips of comedy uncurl,

until just beyond the blackest,

vacant snuffles of pure sloth,

before we rise, before

the up-turn of a smile,

she stops,

and crowns that yarny head

with a cherry colored fools-cap

and a laugh. 
Such actions speak much louder here

than words; the ends of empty stitchery,

they lift us from this fantasy,

and short commercial blurbs

to leave us with her memory,

unraveling epiphanies of trash–

and that is when,

sewn carefully to cloth,

her scarlet velvet heart

leaps out to us.