'The lines of the landscape run through me to somewhere else'–Zoe Skoulding with inspiration from Library of Babel by Jorge Luis Borges
Absent one, with whom I sew stuttered Scribbles, stitched in buttons on a screen, I think you have entered my nature library; The autumn-soft leaves got ruffled Into beautiful squirly windswept patterns To blur my still-hardened horizons.
It was later in the library of work, Getting my threads in order, I encounter a man called Henry. Enter Henry, his own threads trailing At his trainers, a mess of bleached hair Under a beanie, jeans royal blue and frayed.
Concentrating, I am keen not to cut ties With what is buzzing in my belly. Henry's vibe picks up the buzz; He is falling over himself With some thread on his phone; This is what I see, before his face; And his voice, Somerset and lilting Says ma'am you wouldn't mind would you?
He can't read and it's a text, The thread of which I pick up straight away. What does it say? 'I can't talk now.' Can you write, please (I am handed the phone) That I really sorry and I really care, And why have you cut me off and are you there? 'I don't feel well,' the reply comes. I sorry for you, I sorry, please answer, Please let me back home...