Threads
Sentences have always haunted me. Diagramming them in grammar school (as we still called it). Parsing. Their shapes. The bones of meaningfulness on which scraps of flesh or silks might drape for a moment. And when they’re gone, the framework is still there. The armature.
The skeleton at the feast of meaning, of love. The barebones, structures, structure itself. Articulate. Articulated skeleton of medical student: wired, wired to move as a body could.
Words strung lightly on a sense of form. Threads is my fealty to the tyranny of the sentence.
