The Woven Fabric
The woven fabric traps around the breast
and scabbard hand of Who is like the One
Who IS? It tangles back about his hip
and wrinkles folds beneath his pinning foot.
Secured from cloaking out the wind and light,
the question of his sword arises, stayed
in motion–still, a cross in hand–to sheathe?
Or drawn to save the blossoms on his feet?
The flowers bind his sandal straps as he
prepares to loose the matter knotting back
his weapon’s flight, to cut away the snare
once woven on the loom by cross on cross
like too much fabric from the tapestries
now trimmed to hang without loose string’s excess.