Flytyer, when you run out of thread,
use the strands of my hair fallen
in the bathroom sink. And when
those are done and you need
more royal wulffs, take
the iridescent threads that run
the length of my hip, for they
are fine. And when at last
those are spent, take my poem
by the head, skin it tongue
to tail, and with fillet knife
cut their lines length-
wise. The strips of letters almost
see-through, the blind cutthroat
swallowing her whole, elipses
running down its flank like
this fine unfinished poem
that doesn't know how
to end itself...
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