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,

these tatters

at peace almost

with the great outrage

of not being around.