SWEATERS, OR JUMPERS
When the borrowing days of April
are over, and dark things grow warm,
I must lay them in the trunk, nestled in mothballs,
lower the lid, carry them up the narrow ladder
to the attic. The dust is already baking up there:
things scurry. Spring is the time of pests.
I descend to a cool fresh window.
I long already for the time of brown tones,
maple candy, old-lady sweetnesses,
and the rough bunching of yarn against my skin.
Few things are less vital, more comfortably moribund
than sweaters: even if the British call them jumpers
they’re still the pelts of dead months,
thrown over the back.
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