rich wool

i cried last week
twice

over small,
big pulls

that i found,
pulled
a pile
of knots

big ropes
and small strings
in bowlines
and caught rings

a tangle of
think-tattered thoughts


but the keenest happ
happened
at the pinnacle
tear,
upon letting
the line-ends
go

i became
unraveled,

and, lauging
while sobbing,

tightroped
on that feeling of
woe


each time, my eyes salted
after the tears halted

me weary
my cheeks ruddied pink

and so what remains
are the richest
of fibers –
the best to weave,
i should think.