Beside my bed are heaps of shoes: 
old shoes, new shoes, large and small. 

On a chair are heaps of clothes: 
old clothes, new clothes, torn and whole. 

I fall over shoes and get tangled in the clothes: 
there is a button off somewhere that I cannot find. 

My thoughts drain away through a hole in my shift 
and my tongue is trapped in a darned stocking. 

I am threatened with cottons and bits of old lace 
and where, O where did I put my scissors? . . . 

O my beloved, you wouldnít know me today! 
Between the prick and the bubble is the wind.