I'd rather run the other way than stay and see
the smoke and who's still standing when it clears

hanging by the thread like cable-knit sweaters
spinning the stitch and weaving it into another,
a homogenous patch of acrylic – an artificial
start to an artificial relationship;

fingers connecting like how drumsticks meet
the snare leaving this air of rhythm – beating
the worker's song, wishing you could undercut
productivity by losing the riff

stuck in your head day after day, your life a
loss to commodity, the mechanical force
of fingers to threads, the knitter and sweater
become one in the same