when I walk down the
streets and
it's cold outside,
I have a paper scarf to
wrap my neck with--
all written by fingers of bees
all drawn by drools of slug.
when into the cones of lamplights and moths
the scarf waves about me and I read--
bits of phrases and pictures minute
yet I still have to get
what my paper scarf is about?
is it a story?
is it a classwork note?
is it just about my neck?
what should I do with those lines and dots?
Oh and I know
not the wind nor the cold will rip
my paper scarf--
but my clumsy hands.