Their eyes were on me like little cocktail cherries swirling around the glass.
Fat with moisture, almost pink,
And I had left the yarn rotting in the yard.
Intestines of the shop floor, orphaned, up for adoption.
Spools of tetric planets searching for brilliance.
To make me up like a ghost train lost in its station.
Burned terracotta in the winter dew,
Failing to avert their stalks of holly.
The blackest day broken by the whitest pearl.
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