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Milling about the city's nightlife,

she threads through the quilted crowd

who rug themselves up, flattering

each others' leathers and wispy flair.

She stands on the fringe like a lost

strand of hair listening to the needles,

the knit-knot words, the pinning-up of

phrases - cottoning on to their lingo.

She's ready to be brushed aside

when some guy's quip poufs her up

like a pillow, and she responds by

chewing a ball of fluff because, for

some fuzzy reason, she wants his hide.

She sews what's left of her heart to

her sleeve - a threadbare cliché that

his sharp, quiff-like puns pierce like

a pin-cushion - but with conversation

wearing thin and his hand reaching for

her velvet, she remembers the lint

piling up in the corners of her

apartment; the frayed curtains she's

never closed on her view of the city.

She can see it now from her bedroom

window: the silhouetted skyline, a

tattered hem; the stars, little white

cross-stitches forming a sky of blind

eyes; and rolling over the buildings,

the moon, a silver ball of wool,



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