The World is a Garment

The world is a garment

Woven, woven, weaving,

Like a c.e.o. on maternity leave,

And stan, at Ageis, shaking coughing.

Stories of a different world

With brilliant colors black and white,

To the girl whose father died.

The world is a garment,

Woven, woven, weaving

The world is a garment

Woven of threads like me:

And the man down the street,

And Phil, who just got out of jail,

And vern, who says he’s a truck driver,

And Valerie, who’s a witch,

And my old principal Mr. Richardi.

The world is a garment

Woven of threads like me.

The world is a garment

Woven of threads like these:

The softly lighted pine needle,

And the peeling leaning bench,

The bug spatters on windshields,

The barefoot on warm cement,

And the friend, on it, who slept.

The world is a garment

Woven of threads like these.

The world is a garment, woven, woven, weaving.