Poem? (Haha)

This is how memory attempts to eclipse itself:
covering the tattered edges of that which we cannot

accept, as a seamstress runs needle and thread
over the smoother surfaces of satin, silk, cotton

warp and weft, folding edges and tucking corners.
Seamless, we say when there are no corrections,

only a line that stretches from here to here, an attempt
at perfection. Beneath this, we measure everything

else in terms of exactness.