Larry SAWYER
COTTON WEAVING, SHANGHAI
The coarse implements become a necessity, as do exotic dyes, not to mention wholesale patience. For the luxury of the trade inspires distrust toward its adherents, even if its intricate patterns and so-cool cottons shield from the sun, make fishermen fluent in the mirror or else fit them in misunderstood mutters and burning waters. Hold them with me, through the crowded streets of the city and seek out the prosperous blood in a bruise of harvest.
I am the cotton weaver and the rivers of sand around my neck, in processions of back roads and awkward subtle limbs, give hope amid the fluttering from this bush of autumn birds, their whisperings beginning.
MY EDITOR FRIEND
My editor friend, who isn't me, walks into my apartment without knocking. I've finally come to visit, he says. He soundly raps my forehead with his golden knuckle and announces in a loud voice, "Your poetry is causing the world to leak, you must write something solid my good man!" To this I respond that I've sworn off poetry and only mutter pillowpoems into my pillow every night. To the untrained ear these sometimes sound like distinct little sobs. After explaining them at length, these pillowpoems may also be mistaken for death threats. Tuesdays and Thursdays they definitely sound like a barking dog.