Clotted knots over darkness, what it had all become, and barely holding on. Together? I couldn’t say. I had thought it was my innards: veins, nerve endings, cells. Suspended precariously over bleak. Clinging. Trembling in a void. I had thought it was existence. An only way to survive. Just hanging on. In. But then you’d said it was “us.” The precarious thing, the tendentious, the threatened. You said our attachments were thin, and weakening, our threads hardly visible anymore. But look! Look at us love! We’re all woven together – we connect at many points – we form a pattern! We are webbed things. Oh don’t detach a filament, no don’t detach a one, beloved. Oh say it won’t come undone this way?
N Filbert 2012