And if you find yourself too far away from the orange cones that were placed in a circle with you in the Middle
Then walk back towards the center of the sun and call out for every saint that had ever held your hand and
If you can no longer hear them whisper through every thread of hair that flows from the tired scalp you call your own,
Then you will no longer be a part of the strand
The strand that is so carefully woven through the straw bails of every cattle lawn
That is bitten
And chewed
And pulled apart through every kiss ever given by any member of the human race
No slow motion bull shit played back between flashes of your bathroom light
None of that sweet and syrupy mass will be wiped on this plate
Set on the table woven by the strand
