poem with a borrowed line

all the stolen words
like unborn water, all
the softening fruit
that make the branches
bend despite themselves.

despite the fences
and the ropes, all
the light that can't
be kept from finding
places where hinges

join, where weave
and weft intersect:
tiny holes like those
a needle would make,
stitching one

panel to another.
tightest when
nearly invisible:
asterisked rows of
even perforations.


In response to Via Negativa: Gestation.

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