And if you’re still looking for a blanket, Sweetie
I’m sorry, I’m no sort of fabric
But if you need a tailor, then take your torn
Shirts and stumble up my stairs,
And mumble your pitiful prayers!
And in your tangled night’s sleep,
Our midnight needles go to work until
All comfort and fear, flows in one river
Down on the shelf by the mirror
Where you see yourself whole,
And it makes you shiver.
