What was once soft
And warm
And familiar,
We shed.
By the end of spring
You'll be gone.
It would be nice
To tug the turtleneck up
Over my face,
Stretch the hem down
To my feet.
To be swallowed
By lies and wool.
The sleeves have grown short;
I can no longer tuck my
Trembling hands inside.
Unraveling sweater;
We pull the threads loose
And let it unwind to
Piles of tired yarn.
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