"The pink quare--that's the lady,
that's the only square that's the lady."
(I have said there might be one patch
sentimental in the king-bed quilt.)

Everyone's hands around it--they jury;
they say it looks like uncles' clothes.

Others know it is all the woman,
all of its newly poured black and steaming streets,
rollered, tarry, crystalline, unannullably
mapped.

           And in the center,
drak blue, herringbone, and brown scraps
from scraping-by suits. Old seam-holes here.
Selvages. I think she took in husbands'
for sons. I think she has no daughter and she isn't
getting any thinner.

                   In winter they all shiver.
She's the kind that will not rest
till she's increased present heavy love
by one bedcover.