Sandy Florian

A continuous strand of twisted threads. Like wool or nylon. Used in weaving or knitting. Spindled fiber. As. Cotton. Silk. Or flax. An elaborate fiction or fairy. For. Tufts of crimson in cushions. Pearly strings on stairwells. These are the mingled yarns. Those are blended entrails. Or. One of the threads of which rope is composed. I ask you, How? You respond, Put the reel in a frame at the head. Then. Convey the register towards the thing. See the hook twists on the strand there. There where the process commences. But. Unless the whole thing is made right, this is just a dainty quay. With yarns about. Where eight women children spin worsted. So. Twist the knit around unfisted fingers in whatever shape of infinite. Then. Fold it over so it's an O. Wind as you normally would. But. I am another Penelope. They say the yarn I spun in your absence only filled Ithaca with Moths. Lies. Rumors. Proffered postcards. And boasts. These are my throwaway lines. Or. I am spinning garnet from birds. As. A vitreous mineral. Found in crystal. Projecting from pedicles of feldspar.

A thread of worsted in strands of rope made for the Royal Navy. For. Detecting embezzlement. Or. To trace the yarn to the yard.

You say, Nail the thing it in the middle of a scrap of oak. Or. Speak to me fair and canny. Weave, weaver. And. Ravel the hasp on the windles. I say, Tell me your story with a dash of snake. For. A weight suspended over the rolls produces the requisite tension. Or. I will cut the thread of life before the end of pain is carefully measured. But. You are a factoring fellow. Yarn is scaled in your weigh-house. While I am presenting a poem. Spun from reddened ruby. Or. I am biding my time with harlots. In the whitewashed rooms of Birdsville. For. This is the afghan pattern. Or. That is my body wrapped in yarn. And. After yarn is tarred, it is laid in the house to harden.