dolls with torn seams
and tiny reminders pushing relentlessly
against the broken rails of circular thought.
I've sewn the wrong ends together
and can't rip them apart.
the pedal is pressed down, steadfast
quicker and quicker,
everything quakes dimly beneath me.
Is it a monster lurking under my bed
or something else entirely?
I have not grown much farther from here,
this place, this heart, and yet
with throbbing delicacy
the caterpillar weaves his fortress.
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