moire

shall I compare thee to a Summer's day, insidious thought, revolving. can nights be scarlet and bleed, will smoke plumes rise unendingly up the dower walls.  on ochre fields I laid all night, averting expectations, misspent and low, befalling. the old knitter bows before a white stretched-out line, patterning the world into order, her life's chantry, watering light.