Evenings, when the light dims
and I lie hidden in bed,
I gather outlines of ideas
that flow over the silence of my limbs.
It's here I must weave
thought's tapestry,
arrange my own strands
use myself to draw my own figure.
This isn't work
but workmanship.
Of the page, then of the body.
To evoke thought's form,
measure and fit it.
I think of a tailor
who is his own fabric.