Interstice

At night, instead of a prayer, I recite
quietly and mostly to myself all the words
for tomorrow I still remember. 
                               I think about 
how I now dislike the word pivot, but still 
believe in the liquid space between one
moment and the next. 
                     What do you call 
the twin eyes the dressmaker sews atop
and above the zipper, where the wire 
hook waits to finish 
                     the garment's drape 
around and to the back, at the nape? One time,
as a child, I held up a hand
                             mirror in front
of my face to see its surface fog like a lake 
when mist has not yet risen. I liked that 
experiment, and the one 
                        where you lay a needle
gently on water then wait so it points north.