scraps of fabric threaded through with
miniscule stitches, this third
cousin, once removed, from the
grand tapestries hung on cold stone
walls, destined for the domestic
sphere, no less a place for
art than the cool whiteness of
the museum, art in
practicality, in memory, too, the
strips of cloth reminding one of
a long-ago summer and
how the crickets sang out in
unison, the unexpected
concert a final blessing to
the day, the lightning bugs
blinking out their morse code,
our glasses drained and bed awaiting
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