April 7th

I flew round my cardboard table like a migration

through yards of calico in patterns like

light through fingers,

the red of closed eyelids, blue

of shadows under eyes,

I migrated through my eyes and noticed at last

the stitches I left in my little road

to the places I went back to again

and again and I flapped and scissored my way

through doors that in time I saw

were only painted on and could be

split into pattern pieces when squeezed

between pivoting blades and stitched into

new doors with little rows side

by side like houses I've nested in

and migrated to again

and again I returned to worn flannel and bedsheets grey

and white as untouched wool until I noticed at last

that those places are only painted on

and that in some places in me I am only painted on but in some places

in me I am cutting calico apart in places I once thought solid as houses,

I am splitting miles of calico and stitching

my long road and I am

migrating deeper.