This poem was originally published on 22 July 2016.

I hear,
Someone knit,
A violet glove across the world.

They say,
That someone,
Found it too hot to hold.

The sun,
Was rolled up,
In dirty white wool.

The clouds,
Got caught,
Like lint not pulled.

A lamp,
Made stars,
In the gaps in the knitting.

But the violet glove,
Stayed unremitting.

After several hours,
The glove did come off,
Yet funnily or not,
The world hadn’t cooled off.