The world and all its time are etched in patterns, fine and deep
and optimists love to recall a flowing tapestry,
but what I see is more a quilt where simple hues repeat:
where squares ensnare our knowledge in our broken memory.
Quite often people say that the most sought-out lovers keep
the vestiges of details that they may deploy in verse;
if so is true, our hearts must be as passionless as sleep –
forgetful strings just doomed to ravel under heaven’s curse.
And though a needle strikes the cloth in one explosive leap,
and just as quickly can recoil, more quickly than a sneeze,
the stencil is still circular and seldom strings can seep,
this world’s a woollen blanket, and we, just a passing breeze.