poem with a borrowed line

all the stolen words
 like unborn water, all
  the softening fruit 
   that make the branches 
    bend despite themselves.

despite the fences 
 and the ropes, all
  the light that can't
   be kept from finding
    places where hinges

join, where weave
 and weft intersect:
  tiny holes like those
   a needle would make,
    stitching one

panel to another. 
 tightest when 
  nearly invisible: 
   asterisked rows of 
    even perforations.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Gestation.