Needle Box

Pin, you were the worm who holed
the whole begining, web-work pinched
and honed from the pollen, the loosened
tubes stiff with cider. What juice you knew
became my antlers, shedding skin.
All through the weather, musk
on the bark marking our dotted line
incisions. You say the fog keeps you
from me. I say it's the clocks, winking
like shoveled asphalt sugared with salt.
Such selves, our temporaries. The sting is hot.