A sailor once tied me in knots.
In the middle of the night,
I ease them undone with my pen.
A figure eight knot in my neck gently flowers
and becomes a butterfly testing its wings;
that coiled knot in my belly springs undone
like a bean vine uncurling tendrils;
loosen, loosen, here, there; unwind, unbind,
lay me out in arabesques and lovely loops.
Too-much-life is a weathered seafarer
practicing his craft.
Leave me be, in my puddles of jute,
the fibres eased and pleased
with their lazy uselessness.
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