And at last the weary thread of patience
slips through the elusive silver eye,
a line of blanket stitches through
the sheets I pull over our dust-cloud mouths.
And I am learning to reconcile with
the tilted magnitude of memory:
A grand arc of aurulent miracle
In my reverent, covetous hands,
Or perhaps to you,
An ephemeral dart and glance of fate
As you make your way towards the hall.
Leave the light on when you go, love.
The thimble is heavy on my fingertips,
I am forgetting how to weave us in
To the tapestry of sorest hope.