it keeps dragging off your shoulders
you can walk away from it until the train is pinned in a too-familiar hemisphere
and a thread got caught on an equatoral steeple.
you're soaking up the seas
with your tangle of fuzz
your cape over wildlife and pistachio green town squares.
taut in a place from that particular town square where
children stand on your hem
and stroke the muddy mohair
with one hand, the other resting
the cape doesn't look like a cape
from there it's just a curiosity,
loosely knit and nice,
and it's replaced the sky.