These three spin faster.
Dip the wool in emerald, then red.
Sip the sweet nectar of each success.
Suck the bitterness that follows.
They sleep standing up
or in the depths of their woven cups.
They play cat’s cradle, hang man, blind
man’s bluff: know that paper, rock, scissors
is not enough to work their loom.
The loser nips the thread of doom.
