by taking the world around
and knitting it into a sweater,
a sweater spun from the wool of starry heavens,
its pointed and dotted pattern projecting
englowing a hazy and worldly shape.
in wearing this sweater, a mold is taken
of which the world is thereafter cast
everything taken inward, and only moving forward
in a clamorous and confounded fashion
the floundering senses never seem to catch a break.
so attention is entranced in these fraying loose-ends
of the starry sweater's pattern.
so many frayed flaws and mistakes in our manner
for it was not anything that was thought about too much
the sky of which the pattern was taken, it turns out
was rather dully lit, wasn't a thing to know of it.
it was without bright blemishes, perhaps
a few sad scintillating spots each never quite the same.
but to the whole of itβwhich was mostly all of itβ
as the sweater frays, so too did the veil it wrought.
patches to the elbows, flames to the frays?
or will another spool be spun
from the wooly rays of morning's bright sun?