to weave a cloth

Not until last year I realized
I had swallowed the sun.

It must have been that bitter August drink,
that justified the fog.

The numbness and winter.
The doubt, the doubt, the stone.

Until.

It's been the thread pulling out
of the clown,
all the way to everything

After. And after still.

It's been the thread that I'll weave
into cloth.

Of light the string,
that's what you've brought.