Cloth hangs thick as curtains: floral dresses and saris with their oriental prints. Patterns from the tropics. Fabric from the moon. My own clothes now are navy and dull from so many cleanings. These are the pants I wear to work. The sweater I wear to meetings, to my lectures, with no comment or complaints to my supervisor or his supervisor. I know myself well, it is a lifeless body draped without vegetable dyes or the soak of the earth, raw hands to knead the knots and stitches. I am clearly not of this same earth as I see my face distorted in the curve of the shining rods on the racks. These clothes are almost free, relinquished by those who once owned them, by those who first imagined them, holding the design in their mind and finally made them, stitch by stitch. There is sadness in such a tender craft. For now they belong to themselves, aging in the light as it streams through windowpanes; they are safely apart from the world, yet part of the world, made of the world as it flashes by the bars of my body and does not peek inside. Look at me, I’m begging these bones to open, to open! and yet I am trapped in this box of glass: every speck of dust is illuminated.