Tuesday 20 September 2011

Stitching

I was holding the edge of your skirt;
it was tough fustian, 
the kind of artisan thing
with the hard stitching
of a babushka
which it has become fashionable
to fashion and indeed wear here
in Brooklyn, when I finally woke up;
and shook off pain,

if not killed it,
with the waking up of words I first read,
or heard spoken on warm lips
not above crowds really

but really above a vent
and the backdrop of an apartment
block.

And it was cold but not truly Christmas.

I favour the truth now älskling
it won’t hurt to say,
a thing like; I love you
and the tough edge of your artisan’s skirt

though you’ve never yet worn it
or owned it,
and once again I’ve let
the appropriateness of an image
take truth one stich further
than I oughta,
because it sounded better. 

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