Ask me what I think
Of paisleys, plaids and argyles
Ask me when I’m knees deep
In a Negroni in The Carlyle
But ask in Ancient Greek
And grin at me like a gargoyle
Like wind through fields of wheat
Like daylight cast over a sundial
What I think of all pattern
Is that its the tail behind the needle — the thread that hooks the flesh
It’s the moments unexpected wherein cross our lonely paths
It’s the oranges on the table where in a bowl, our eyes rest