One Whit of What I Find

Cheesecloth? – something more absorbent –
doesn’t only sieve, this sentient fabric which
remembers in its weave and alters its believing
order at the faintest touch of his sensed
breathing – soaks up scents that would perplex
a more enlightened consciousness – but, now,
in this, are simply mildly accepted: waved in
like the circus smells and sounds of dreams:

a fabric, though – yes, cloth: a kind of cotton –
or soft wool – now suddenly vast reams of it –
as brushed and fine as silk – and, here,
the rougher patches, some abruptly brittle ilk
of burlap-tough resistance to experience:
a showy badge of pain, endurance: followed by
the calm assurance of a sea of linen, flapping
softly in the April air – sheets so cleansed by

carelessness they fade to threadbare air: there’s
the texture that embraces and absorbs each
mighty flick and twitch and gorgeous incident
of what engorges me in the surprise of looking
deep into those eyes: scattering invincibilities
like glitter, gold dust, grit – skittering into
the vast allowance of the mind. I do not think
I’ll ever understand one whit of what I find.


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