What sunrise has come
to greet the day with a mouthful of blood?
By night, three old crones sat at their loom,
weaving the clouds blood-orange, passing
an eye between them.
Now immune, I am no longer afraid of
the inconstant spindle. I prick my finger
on the axle of fate. Draw blood.
Rotten fruit flowers from these stigmata.
In and out, in and out, the needle whips
the red thread through this useless cloth.
The four velvet chambers will not give it up.