Pull the wool
from your body,
arms up and over the head.
Tug from the shoulders,
the upper arms.
The sweater crackles like fire,
grips at your face,
your cheekbones and nose.
Strands of your hair are weightless
as the looped yarn
runs fingers along
the smooth, dark tresses.
All this friction,
All this static,
and still we put it on
and shrug it off
in fear of the chills
that can clasp our human skin.
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Wonderful poem! The quality of the language makes me seek the deeper meaning that could be inherent in the words, beyond putting on and taking off a sweater, if I didn't know it started with a realistic image.
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