I caught the thread in Venice- brown- woven through
with decay- like the holes in the cuffs of my sweater-
rotten lace on a dress-
April the 14th- A desire to mend. A
collision of pattern the dusty patina of a bygone season.
The house’s edge through the black metal gate- framed
and obscured –trees and hedges- I have walked this way often- I covet the
house- its gothic its mystery the scent of remembering something that never
existed. The weight of scaffolding- the knots and threads of a frame.
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