comfortable and convenient in my gradually melting-on disguise:
a clean and presentable coat with neat and tailored sleeves, weightless and only a little substantial over
my old brown patchwork all woolen with worried fingerholes in the corners of pockets
soft small rabbitholes where coins and pens and other insignificant ornaments of days slip into the deep soft behind the scenes
ropes and rigging and the hidden edges of sewn seams
the world inside our jackets is a secret burrow for lost and unfinished things
i think of myself in the comfortable groove of a hem, bedded in with lint, pencil shavings, receipts for gasoline and diet cola, brushed by unraveled silk linings
digging out a square of tweed to press my eyeball against and see the passings of sidewalks and woven layers of decaying leaves
going blackened scraps
to muddied tatters
to embers of heartsblood
to red and tarnished brass
in the airy low platforms where ants and small worms make short trips to deeper homes of death
