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.