Jumper

On threads of a jumper, you are all pulling.

One at the sleeve, one at the neck, one at the waist, one at the back.

One hooks, like an old lady who knows knitting, only in reverse.

Another twists around the finger, tight, while the other picks at speed.

One is unravelling the structure, round in circles, bottom-up, continuous.

The solid shape, thick and warm before, has holes in it now.

Perhaps let the pieces go, before all that’s left is an untidy mound of wool on the ground.

Before it’s not a jumper anymore.