The needle is a fine strand of hair plucked from an aging scalp.
It is intentional in physiology:
Designed to be invincible, it pushes through flesh and muscle with ease.
It is good-willed in nature:
Dimpled at the end of a steel body, it permits quick removal.
Yet, as breakable as it seems at first puncture,
The metal point sends quicksilver through my veins, which
In its wake paves a path for the flow of vitality.
I lay with what seems like thousands of needles, and
I focus on the inkling of a feeling:
Each prick is a reminder of ancient history.
Each prick is the nature of traditional practice.
Each prick is a bookmark: the memory of a needle in time.