Sunday lunch

This test pressed breath
My guess, goes, guesses, guest, gets
Nowhere, now here
I starved argued this ague
Fatigue and yet how I prayed
Fatigued teen, turned pro, carbo turbo
I gave word to the wrong tree
Alternately, what worth is this
I guess there are places

Far above this and whatever
They say I have
Can dance the toe tangled
Tango of each threaded hair
Fleece of my line of wool
Spooling graceful from the spindle
And there a thimble rings
That sweet glut a second ripe
Plucked to write or swing or run
Or travel to foreign lands
I have no advice for this

Instant of bliss
And each ticklish whisper
Of a love I forgot, forsook
Transferred to pawn
I was forewarned
But I weave back gentle calm.