Like some good painters
from memory
I try and sew
simple topography—
stitch by stitch
an island approached by sea.

Through chance
or use
I wore weak
the world.

This wool shawl
gray and gauze-thin
softly wraps out morning.
Shaken against the light
it proves
time-eaten,
a fading constellation
of pin holes
and areas
worn clear through.

Almost invisible
each darn
over-under
a child’s potholder
in miniature,
dense to the touch, rough,
a blip on the map.

If I had fine wool thread—
but this silk is enough.

Already I can tell
the whole
will hold.