Birds in tapestry, red hearts for eyes,
fly threads that never meet but
reach around some branch in green.
In tapestry you raise your arms.
Twelve threads off, I reach forever,
true and ardent brown, unreconciled.
In tapestry this happens: oceans, islands,
people hurrying, a sky that stretches.
Our feet just miss a gray line like a road.
Carelessly I throw this rough design.
It falls in folds and bunches. Rain, mud, wind,
trampling feet blend it into the world.
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