These moments happen.  Suddenly –

a stitch drops off

the needle, bares cold the metal.

Those clacking sounds. Cease.

And when you look through

yourself in the mirror, the silver

sheet is only an ugly face.  A thin lip.

A pleat creased,

starched into another pant leg.

There is no lace

in the hinge of your knee.

But there is yes

flat as linoleum, yes graver

than a diamond,

Yes in a cattail grating

on the sleeve of a reed.