dogeeseseegod

God-thread

Hanna Denton

You the mysterious,

Close as the breath in my chest

And still just the barest inkling of you

Can I grasp with my fingertips.

All I hold of you is 

scant as the threads of a raveled edge,

a story like a tapestry

spun and woven and brought down

a thousand times,

dissolved of design.

Still, the heart finds scattered traces everywhere,

pieces them together, winds them in a ball,

hopes to find a way out, toward something like home.