Little dove, 
the stripe down your sides
of fibers knitted is primed to ignite:
a pyromaniac could bring your cloth
to a blaze, cotton melting like fresh snow, 
could have crimson line your ruptured seams, 
dripping like a vibrant garish varnish. 

So, little love,
chuckle, guffaw, but hold your sides
because chasing the firecracker for laughter,
for its burst of sparks will burn the canvas
black with patterns like peninsula edges 
on an ancient, windblown map.

Oh, brittle dove,
if you desire the cut of new cloth to stitch 
your embroidery with your hands, 
unravel the hem with them — the body 
is not simple as thread and the Gordian Knot.