Silkworm

To slip into the silk of another existence:

shovel soil and mulberry leaves into my senses,

spin fibers of a delicate shroud.

If there is beyond youth, I could

age into mothy decades.

Cream-colored, but damned.

I want hours, weeks to be soft,

but domestic webs grow in coarse.

To ensure worthy spit made into sheen.

To clothe my disappearance.