Their eyes were on me like little cocktail cherries swirling around the glass. Fat with moisture, almost pink, And I had left the yarn rotting in the yard. Intestines of the shop floor, orphaned, up for adoption. Spools of tetric planets searching for brilliance. To make me up like a ghost train lost in its station. Burned terracotta in the winter dew, Failing to avert their stalks of holly. The blackest day broken by the whitest pearl.
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