first it’s a bra, then a boot
then a ladder

then a broom
then a hat or a beak

then a pool
(exed-out)

this finger loom
on which I weave

divine my future
double and twist

a length of cheap jute
till it turns to a Moebius loop

unspools to form
an odd-shaped fruit

some new celestial body
whose portent’s unknown