At the nexus of threat and promise,
where Fate winds her thin, tender threads,
I was measured and cut,
pressed and filed flush,
till a square could have stood in my stead.
Still I share a heart with a hunter.
She's the eyes in this skin/skull house.
And one day I swear,
I won't leave her there;
I'll bid her come and call Fate out.
At the nexus
of here and now,
I bid her come
and call Fate out.
For the Sunday Whirl