Protector stars exploded
in the grind of steel on silver,
they’re on my finger still, as bell,
clapper away, the bright fancy.
You stitched a lifetime
into gone clothes, glasses
pitched at the end of your nose,
two points of glint behind,
relived the start by the fens,
sewing hopeless in your lap,
thimble swinging on the eye
of a cushioned sharp.
Its pattern grips the push
through my patchwork now
and shaping peals out silence.
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