Chapter IV

The universe is made of threads,
Places between atomic pull
Cross weaved;
She lived there,

Mending tears.

We call it a continuum here,
But to her, it's all just there.
A quilt
Of everything that is and could

Her scissors were what we'd call a fore and middle finger
Her apron, a sheet of skin
Her pin cushion, a dwarf planet
Her pockets filled with octagonal patchwork
Time, Breadth and Distance woven together

She shifted between sheets unnoticed
Silently
Watching over and protecting His Majesty

She could fit inside an envelope
But the same size as an echo
Between reverbs of herself she hid
Not slipping through time
But on it
Sliding on a slide rule
Multiplying herself where needed

She traversed the universe
But did not make a dent
She was delicate with her creation
She would sit down to knit
Not a strand of her disturbing the tension of her craft

She watched the universe through the head of a needle
Only saw us through a squint
Only saw us as loose strings
Conveniences that could be perfected on in His Majesty's name
The function
Not purpose
Yes, those are two different things.

Yet, she did not feel cheated that her existence was not life but something else
Because she did not know any better,
Any different
Just the sameness

Stitches set evenly apart