A Missive

You, spool so kind, find you a substance in
the clothes this humble man weaves. I only
want a windbreaker, for bitter the cold rush
is against bare skin--it can chill a man
until a man becomes a hole, wide but hidden,
with no chance of Alice falling in, nor securing
any white rabbit his timely appointment.
A body of blue is quite useless.
Drip, drip, the gutter of my brother's roof
on my head, will a pillar form, as in caves
of limestone, or will I warm in the soft of you,
string woven so tightly as to deflect the river
over my head? oh sworn spool, relieve me
for my wont is pure white to see. Look, erected I
statue white in the obscured sun's rays as it lay
behind clouds frigidly enjoying the sky.
I wish, thread, that you might hold, bay
the hole of me orange over black.