It was snobbery perhaps
(or habit)
to want
perforation,
to choose cotton, for instance,
with its coarse asymmetries,
over polyester
or unctuous rayon.
But this, I suppose,
is what we were looking for all along –
this weave
that dares to embrace
air,
this hush of linen, these frayed edges,
these places where thought
runs
threadbare,
where colours bleed into
something vastly blue
like sky,
It’s taken a long time
to understand
poems matter
because they have holes.