End on, we had the look of old bone,
honeycombed, rolled from the east.
We watched Freud push a dry pea under quiet cushions
before he tossed us
into the thrill of our weave:
pulse of red-blue-gold
nap of smooth and soothe.
He layers us to bend the room

like the tents of our memory
when children tickled our depths and
screwed little toes
in this flower, then that other.
Those were round days!
Plump with touch

we remember You:
Smoked fingers tipped with burnished horn,
settling loops to swell our strings.

Lost in warp you weft your dreams.


Ha! My brothers and sisters!
It is amusing to watch
these princesses recline here,
falling in love
as Freud unravels them
to a single stretched fibre
helixed with its kind.