together like woolen fibers
in a sweater. Out of place and
out of time. Patches covering
the holes in mine. The stitching

unravels
through the journey
of my travels.  Needle pen
in reds and golds bleeding out

in the folds. Shrinking in
the wash from every toss of man
I couldn’t get over my head. And still
creak like boards in my bed.