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	Thread Mark Cunningham
	A maple leaf, newly unraveled at the end of its branch, rides and jolts in muscular gusts. The pumping of your heart keeps you awake.  Roof vents whirl and whir.  You get up to write another note.  A cloud slides across the quarter moon. Your eyes sag, heavy as damp canvas.  Just before your eyes close, a floor scrubber later on her way home bends and picks up a scrap of thread lying in the exact outline of the cloud.

Mark Cunningham lives near Charlottesville, VA, and takes frequent day-trips to
the museums and bookstores in Washington, DC.  Poems have
appeared in Paragraph and Rhino, among others; a larger selection,
of poems on parts of the body, is on the Mudlark website.

All rights reserved. All poems, fiction, articles, essays, and artwork are the property of the authors and artists within, and as such, are protected by applicable U.S. and international copyright law. Copying or reprinting in any form is prohibited without the expressed permission of the author or artist.