GOSPELS

GOSPELS

GOSPELS

I live in a bed of days and paper
between the threads of a graying sweater
strands of yarn raveling out.

I’ve never been far from my gospels.

Hours weave, and I collect words
a graveyard of pens and discarded notes.

I am slow moving and unholy.

I sink in the discomfort
wear it in like this old sweater
frayed and ill fated.

I am fragile in this disorder.