A re-draft of an old poem, shared with The Mag.

HANGING OUT CLOTHES

I am the sculptor,
the weaver, the giver of breath,
binding the dripping forms,
these homunculi, to the wires.
I wrestle legless tubes
and armless torsos
into shapes, disnatured,
thwart, then stand away
to contemplate creation.  

Satisfied, I turn to go
and cracking like flags of liberation
in the sudden April breeze,
the garments dance revolution,
disembodied, boneless, free.