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.