Knitting a poem for Husker Du by the Hoover Dam

And other monuments. The poem looks like a bee (to

Knit Keatsianly). Knitting poems by the Harbour

Bridge, letting moisture into the wool
As it rises, as it sprays from the wake of the ferries

The life of the sea. Knitting a poem by Arthur’s Seat

My Dad looking on benignly. Knitting a poem for the

Pogues at Barrowlands, and other 
Bands. Knitting a poem by the Big Sheep, so waxily

Figurative, an old bad feeling creates knots and

Fissures, like some poison or prison’s got in the line

Knitting a poem for my nephew, so 
He might climb out of any white life that’s made for

Him and his. Knitting a poem by pine trees (symbols

Of longevity) for purring black cockies to eat; or by

The Great Buddha of Toganji Temple 
In Motoyama. What’s Bob Mould doing today

Tonight, I wonder? The knitting grows a tail like an

Unfazed gecko, becomes a poem of two tones. To

The poem the needles are home 
Knitting by the Amphlett memorial in Little Bourke

Us boys desperate to get it done. Knitting to the sound

Of a gypsy band, late in the forest where gay poets

Dance, a plate of gelato and WWII
How swans make the sky look blue. The Avalanches

And Jean-Luc Godard: all get a garter. Ian Hamilton

Finlay, I’ve been knitting this poem all day. I’m going

To wear it at Little Sparta