what is the breath of the thread, Abby
folds in her skirt. Into the
traps of here daydream, the wondered
lights of Times Square. a handiwork has found her untangled, my
hands then what strings to offer. The golden
sheet of twine was an
entrance Abby planned in the
break of the morning, its
lucidity millions in
funding. how the day
buries us, like ash
in the final hours,
in the guise of snow