the needle threads the skin,
two pinpricks of silver that
glints in the afterglow of a setting sun.
in your hands they look like a
singular metal chopstick, those kinds
desperate housewives use as a last resort
to provide a stilt of support
for their oh so pitifully wilting
garden variety plants.
except skinnier and sharper,
like the tones of your voice
and the lines of your skin.
muscles, sinews, undulating plains
of post-modern green bliss.
and your hands, moving with mechanical,
methodical intensity, colour me black
and blue with the scars of your indifference.