XI. It Must make Martyrs of Us
It bears witness to us
to the rhythms blossoming in our eyes
in the whole of us
spacious flowers opening
and closing between horizons,
to the sounds wandering like Theseus
in the dark labyrinth of the one
who listens.
Ariadne’s threads,
knit into the fabric
of the flesh
a sweater for bones,
scarves for every cell
made near a smouldering hearth
during an awesome night,
threads knit into the bones,
into the cells,
fabric stretching for miles on every side
nothing but an intricate yarn
continuous, uncut,
moving with the muscles,
the nerves, the blood and water,
moving them,
they move it
in return.