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We've crowded out the angels
The first needles were of bone or wood,
perhaps inspired by the pine's green ones.
People sewed skins together,
shaped them around their chests,
their arms, their legs
to hug the warmth
to their bodies.
When the white giants
grudgingly began to step back
into the howling hell
where they came from,
needles became bronze
and later iron;
people learned
to weave threads together,
crosswise, up and down
to make cloth.
Now needles are shiny steel;
they embroider flowers,
became hollow to drink blood,
to stream drugs into arteries.
Now they bridge
sickness and health,
life and death,
as we crowd each other,
dancing awkwardly
on the points of needles.
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