Charlie Sharp
I have in my pocket
a brilliant red string
that unspools like a magician’s scarf.
An infinite ball of
bright linen thread
at my fingertips.
I thread it through the eyelets of my boots,
lace them up over
scarlet-darned socks,
and fashion myself a cardinal
in sweaters and scarves,
dropped stitches and loose ends.
I knit hammocks between my knuckles,
summer camp friendship bracelets
for the sycamores,
the oaks,
the robins sequestering chicks
in poppy petal nests.
I stitch closed cracks
in the sidewalk,
string violas and kites
to kiss the air,
cast lines to the bottom of the sea,
between telephone poles,
from her windowsill to mine
with a bucket full of roses that could soar for miles
to find her.
I stand on street corners
watching hair bows on heads,
bookmarks in bags,
patches on pockets
pass by.
The street is alive with rose
threads with no idea
the vastness of their quilt.
What a world,
to be tangled together
by the string in my pocket.
Brilliant, and
infinite, and
red.