Threads are scattered
across my lap. How long 
have I lain cross this table?
Tic Tic the Clock
in the back of my head -
and the table rocks.

Threads. Thread...
bare in my hands.
The original tie -in.
Like a macramé hanging -
in its unformed state
yet frayed from sliding fingers.

And the time.
Ceasing. Unceasing. I relent.
the hands, the pen, the plug.
Toc Toc the Clock.
Stand - and the threads scatter 
Across the floor.





Shelley Rae Bell