Aubade

The loom of dawn, the Nazi clock hand shuttle. Farewell to the Jade Emperor and Zhinü, his daughter, weaver of the Silver River, to Giant Turtle Beach, the skirt of minds, where I can take Amelia out to dinner with Frigga’s distaff as our candlelight, beat hordes of fell marauders on Silk Road, save maids from pirates in a port of Satin, or whatever it is that I would weave into my daytime life, that crude patchwork, the craft of my subconscious Philomel warped by the jet lag of Penelope: it keeps but flannel and such fateful parts as hanging by a thread as Jules mocks me in his unmanly suit from his trapeze. Thus I rejoin the parallel design, the fabricated weft of sanity, to be, like fellow creatures, fiber of the art of Atropos, Lachesis. Clotho.