What’s this thread supposed to do?
It’s languidly moist, and with heaps of goo.
Rough on skin; sinks between teeth;
gathers material- spasmodically steep.
Am I woven by this thread?
Or are we connected by it instead?
I don’t think we’ve much to share,
but the shared dependence on what’s not there.
Silk like chains, weakest threadbare.
Weakest link attached to our absent air.
My limbs are pulled – stitched function,
except in hems of expected conjunction.