You knit the dark shape of it every day
from the dimness at the edge of each day’s sight
and the tethered drift of human shadows
that you catch and jar.
You knit the dark shape of it every evening
alone at the scratched table
or staring at the ceiling as the bath grows tepid
and the rooms around you lose light.
You tell the knots and stitches like beads
pushing away grace, weaving in trespass
that you kiss, yell, whisper, pet, catalogue.
You lay the dark shape of it over you every night
to cover, wrap, smother, mildew, chill.
Copyright Kay Winter