We wrap our bodies in a perfect mesh
of fibres picked and beaten,
bleached and teased and spun
into endless rays of white.
But our humanity betrays itself
in the knee-shaped bulge on an empty trouser leg,
the telltale staining on a rumpled sheet,
and the pungent steam from an ironed shirt.
We take down growing trees
and pulp and bleach and roll and slice them
into planes of blankness.
But our humanity betrays itself
in the studied flourish of a signature,
a margin full of idly jotted faces,
and the turned-down corner of a favourite page.
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