I am threading like a line of needles, slipping one note into the other, holding the melisma in the corner of my mouth. I am always leaning to a requiem a little early, before the one to sing for has actually died, speech rhythm matched like a patch over a song, sung over the body, sung over and over, the words move, the melody repeats. stitching. stitching. I line myself into the running stitch, steady as I clef and see the psalm lines back of the tapestry, words as shifting places marked by...
