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 craftsmanly 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!