I’m starting my magnum opus: it will be
my memorial sweater.
I can’t see yet how it will end
but it starts with ribbing made of rain
on circular needles, so that the sleeves,
when they wear out, can be replaced
like choruses: Raglan cheers or batwing sighs,
depending on circumstance. I do know
I’ll have shoes for pockets, the soles worn out
from dancing, I hope, to inherited tunes
and some new. I’ll have a Hall of Fame:
a panel in Aran with cameos
of Milton, Herbert. I’d like a boat
in the story – if you can knit
splicing comes easy – and a sea
of triple waves for voyages.
I’ll have a computer linked to the eyes
of Hawaiian telescopes, so I can view
the mottle of early nebulae
which will be a large feature of my work.
I’d like it to be a pleasure to wear,
not tight round the neck or under the arms.
I want Moorish whispering galleries
and orange groves, the breath of moss,
the occasional desert… I must start soon.
It’s cooling and, as evening comes on
terrified, I hear soft whirrs:
the pollen-heavy moths of time.