I see your medical calendar’s hem,
marking an end to treatment, note
the final dose as a kind of selvage,
that self-finished margin designed
to deter ravel and fray—the virgin
strip where, in the loom’s wisdom,
fabric embraces ingenious tension.
Amid the warp, running the length,
thank God for each agile doubling
back, also the kindly weft: its limit,
a turn, where strain signals closure.

The soul . . . one can only imagine,
might appear peevishly threadbare.

And then, the tailor. Bristle of pins
between full lips. A knotted thread.
The needle’s eye. Ever-poised God,
never spent: the work, s a l v a g e.

                                    For S. B. C.