is it pushing against restraint,
is it leaning into the flow, carried in
thrown against, seamless—seamful
seemingless?
i tire of manual labour like sewing, like
cutting, hammering—and yet—i imprint
parts of my daily life onto these scraps and
products but—
what remains of me on the things i touch,
that then become another’s?
the hours spent coaxing unruly machines
to perfectly perform as if any of us
ever perform perfectly
as if that even were an option