The disease blooms numbers
that spread across maps and climb bar graphs.
In broad daylight they ride the wind,
dark petals drifting into the spaces between skyscrapers,
no one visits.
Life turns inward. Coffee and books, dogs,
the sound of rain on the roof,
candles burning inside cheap, colored glass.
I crave simple things,
locate yarn, needles, a video that promises
to teach me to knit in six easy steps.
Being left-handed, I suspect that, like everything in life,
the six steps won't be easy.
That the woman effortlessly weaving color into form
isn't telling all. There may be seven steps. Or eight.
But I go on.
Between my fingers crimson unravels
and remakes itself row by row, a stitch at a time,
clumsy as the beat
of a repurposed heart.