A Seamstress Considers the Fourth Dimension

If time were a bolt of cloth, cotton

print flecked with pterodactyls,

I’d opt for leather.

Motorcycle jackets, deerskin

panties. I’d stalk mammals

along denim highways, dream

between their oily pelts, or else

I’d be a historian chart progress

by the size of the moth holes.

I’d inspect settlements split

along fray lines, seaside towns

drowned in blue damask, reefy tapestries.

Later, I’d be revered for my role

in emancipating the spiders

and silkworms. I’d live to see my silhouette

patchworked into public squares. Still,

there’d be no way to stop the great unravelling.

I would tan my own hide to save it.