[crochet basket, or, a failure of medium, of heart]

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the yarn is dumb –
I see that now. the way some objects
yield nothing, bare affect. a single bland
color. I could argue I didn’t know
enough stitches: my single chain
lasted me over one year, then I was moved
to observe a fastidiously slow
and careful youtuber with marvelously
designed fingernails – faux diamonds, glossy stripes!
and learned a second stitch, and third. which I repeated
– as one does, to crochet is to repeat,
they might as well be synonyms –
repeated to no end but found
no newness there. the results: a short
gray doll-sized scarf I tied
round the elongated neck of a smoke-colored
ceramic fawn bust pulled from the kiln
and poorly glazed; this yarn collar
has no text, says not
Noli me tangere
but sits blankly on the bookshelf
offering no understanding
no import, sign of meaning.
one can’t say it’s not strange
and useless, indeed. but
one can also say
I tried to transcend
domesticity, and failed.