FABRIC
was born
death pale
take this fabric, for instance,
test its texture
tell me
what you feel
under your fingers
do you read
it as
a Wordsworth, or would
you say
it strikes you
as far more a Keats
all the synesthesia of silk
though never
on its way
to eclipsing
Rimbaud
I wish
this on the other
we might find it closer
to hessian
switching metaphors
not the smoothness of
Scotch, more Irish
or Bournborn
(Sigmund slip, meant
to say “bourbon”)
the cross-hatching
something though
it must be
said
could convert into a shroud
turn it into
a tapestry
let it run
and run
give it epic strength ditto length
