Perhaps you thought I’d simply pull you out Of all I am, as if you were a seam Sewn loosely on my life? That I could rout Your yarns like threads from some supposed scheme Of richer, thicker, tight-laced patterns? No! I’ll need to pluck you inchmeal, strand by strand, From every foot of woof that spreads aglow With greens, blues, oranges…compel my hand To unweave glittering yards until my warp Runs ragged. All my artisan designs Will hold so little of their former form Without your yarns’ bright hues and loops and twines. At last, you might be wrested from my weft— But oh! My warp would shelter stretches left!