it sits sturdy on my windowsill,
musty from other lifetimes and
its scrolls flourish across black
with red and gilded antiquity.
needle stands smart and slim, at
attention as I thread with care,
piece slippery fabric together with
foot to the motor pedal.
we are young, still sincere about
gimmicks; we are young steel,
struggling alongside windmills
and Samuel Pepys.
my technique is poor, the dress
now a precious ruin. my collector's
item is warm to the touch, like
imprecise breaths into the past.
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