Lamb's Ear Jacket—Black Wool Bouclé

They wore red tights for the occasion of an existential crisis. Accepting their weight, the foam of the couch recoiled into familiar obedience under its drab velvet skin. They closed their eyes and remembered a plant in the garden of childhood: “Lamb’s Ear.” The child pulled a leaf, and then regretted the small violence of the tear, not yet conditioned to ignore the brutality of casual detachment that would inevitably dull the vulnerable edges of youth. The leaf, with a hovering fuzz of soft sage hair coating its body, did indeed recall the warm weight of that small lamb she had once held. It’s fast little heart, its heat, its nervous eyes, and most particularly its ridiculously helpless ears— those marvelous, fresh silk triangles. To hold a little life was a very precious thing. The tights held her, her jacket held her, the couch held her, and she held this lamb, this plant, this memory. She spun-out again, into the worlds of these objects and the unknowable sprawl of all the hands th