I Saw the Devil with His Needlework

The air was like a bullet made out of silk 
I saw him at the curb 
on old upholstery 
saw him with his counted-thread-point 
and tent-stitch, bent over an embroidery hoop 
the trees lifted their drunk limbs and leaves 
while the evening 
looked through a succession of windows 
into other people’s rooms 

the evening was a powerful gun 
the evening had an Uzi 
broad evening 
in a neighborhood full of translucent teens 
sucking on one another’s backpacks 
filling up the trains with their heat 
their intelligence pouring out into the street, sobbing—
I saw the devil with his sewing threads 
making something special for me 
and it wasn’t thunder 

it was perfect clouds 
I saw the devil with his stitching techniques 
textiles and shadow 
saw his hands that never stopped 
the clean amp of his forehead 
tight intervals of flowers in his teeth 
bright as an earing in the drain 
and I made a force field with the wilderness in my face 
and a fortune-teller’s neon sign 

that glowed a painted light onto the street 
and I said his name 
and his crimes 
three times against a curse 
and found a coin on the ground and read the tiny date 
and blessed a bag of weed 
and a wild bore 
I left my bones and my scars 
and went out 
like a poltergeist 
totally empty