Fabric

They are warp and weft knotted into each other and the fabric is here here: everywhere. Here everything is a part of that weave: this dry page this door that is shut and behind this door that sound of feet on the carpet and that sound of the water taps that open and close and that glassy sound of the tea glass in the saucer and the turning of that small spoon in the hot red volume and the twisting of the sugar cube to the height of mingling. With one more added row this fabric is here here: everywhere in the sharp shout of coriander on the never-stopping cart’s stall in the dazed clang-clang of that jazz in the faint chirp-chirp of that sparrow on the pine tree in the crying of the neighbor’s baby in the line under the salty eyelids of that woman in the cheeks under the rouge in that thin lip under the red paint - there inside the mirror – in the dusting cloth in the trembling of inspiration - the inspiration of a happy event. With one more added row that fabric is here it is spread, unfolded with water with bread with snow with the sun with day with night with its new weaves that grow this fabric soaks up moisture grows deep in color grows colorless is grasped is wrung and the threads of water – from its warp from its weft overflow onto the dry page onto the wet page the new constellation turns green and speaks here: everywhere it speaks ...