A Poem

This is a fine thread to pluck.
Follow it down to the darkness and the source.
Let it be your thread to what is
and what will never be. Sing the thread,
let it reverberate. No silence.

It is the poem that sees love
in the grains of wood, hears music
in a train's groan, and feels
every texture of fabric
while dressing the dead.

It weaves what we are,
and what we will become
and whether it be not true or real
is drowned in the tendons of our muscles
violently shaking.