Jan/Feb 2019 • Vol. XLI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 2, 2019 |

The Tailor’s Requiem

This man, on the warp unravels the threads that would need the bias to shape the fabric (then) they call for the cutter to run his shears down the path traced by the chalk (that) is covered over: the night is cold; it has come. Ah, he stretches out the palm of his right hand (ah) the speck of cotton, it has a burr: scattering, the fabrics (let all be covered). His hand (everyone’s) on his head (at) the crown the round shape of skullcaps, blessing (the fabric): the tailor unravels the threads that at God’s direction will be shaped into skullcaps, the crowned flesh of the scalp stays standing smooth (skin) (ah, it’s all sores, now) of beasts of burden, His works: like a horse blanket (fleur-de-lis,

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