—For Wallace Stevens
I am at death’s doorway,
peeking through broken stars.
What I see is yesterday’s yarn
woven into white clouds,
holding some warmth I claimed
at my mother’s side.
Knit me a sweater of my past, and
it will shield me of night’s cold star light.
peeking through broken stars.
What I see is yesterday’s yarn
woven into white clouds,
holding some warmth I claimed
at my mother’s side.
Knit me a sweater of my past, and
it will shield me of night’s cold star light.