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From the delicately scraped moss, a body arises
from a textile of purloined dresses,
a ripped palimpsest of women
running wildly along the mountains, teared
by the silk moth insane for trees.
Thread by thread, they defy the larvae,
rescuing a childhood trapped in the rapids,
a blue river calmly balancing its veiled emptiness.
One bad move and we would have another spur lost,
one of them said, feeling the water currents,
sensing the atlas being redone, resourceless embroidering
the new savoir of the silk’s threshold.