Hallaç

Somehow,
Some men beat the hell out of quilts for a living.
The unkissables,
On account of their moustaches
covered in woolly down.

Bow, mallet, needle, knife.
Runs the knife along the seam.
Thread resists;
cotton breaks;
parts from cotton.
Woolly guts spill out from the gap
between satin sea and calico sand
On to the ploughed fields
of the bedsheet.
Makes a mountain of the wool
Sits by it, tailor fashion.
Dips the gut string of his bow into the mound
Sheep inside
Sheep outside
Momentarily reunited.
And beats the bowstring with the mallet.
String twangs, the wool flies.
Clack clack twang,
Clack clack twang,
Twack twack clang.
One mountain wears down.
A higher one rises up.
The quilt gets its wool back
Fluffier, warmer and smelling of the rays of the sun
Again.

The good ones make the string sing a song
even as they beat the wool to a fluff.
A lullaby caught in the quilt.
My machine washable thirteen and a half tog sounds hollow,

somehow.

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