I
Among twenty boxes of patterns
The only desired thing
Is that pattern, over there, on the Internet.
II
I had three ideas
Like a table
On which ten patterns are hopelessly jumbled.
III
The pattern lies wrinkled on the floor.
It was a small part of the shambles.
IV
An idea and a pattern
Are one.
An idea and a pattern and two yards of Tana Lawn
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of the line
Or the beauty of the fold,
The girl in the illustration,
Or the dress made flesh.
VI
Pins scatter themselves
With ill intent.
The lines of the pattern
Break and clash.
The plaid
Underneath it all
A matchless question.
VII
O thin women of Vogue
Why do you imagine harem pants?
Do you not see how the full skirts
Swirl around the knees
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know welt pockets
And gently rolling collars;
But I know, too,
That the pattern doesn’t know
What I don’t know.
IX
When the facing piece disappeared
It marked the end
Of following instructions.
X
At the sight of the name
“Ceil Chapman”
Even those who draft for themselves
Hit the “Buy It Now” button.
XI
She floored the pedal
Of the machine.
Once, a fear pierced her
In that she mistook
The back bodice of 4788
For that of 8744.
XII
The pattern is motionless.
The scissors must be snipping.
XIII
It was almost finished all day.
It was done and almost done.
The pattern did not
Fit back in the envelope.
[with apologies]
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