Sometimes serious

To think about what sort of a gap is there in her clothes that exists not from poverty but from pretense What shape will be shown How much undulation of flesh How are the lines on cotton shaping the grain of her skin, the tones of her dulcet character. To cover up each time with clothes is to think each time What to leave bare How much variegated skin From where How do clothes hanging on a line remind of the bodies that inhabit them So that to see through the skin of human flesh would be to peel off the the essence of a person. To think that clothes and accessories constitute a woman more than the blood and the hate just beneath her skin. Because we can afford to have her dance on our laps And have us touch her unhidden, vulnerable body. But it would be too much to have her strip her skin Until all that's left is her mind.

It's still fresh - the dew sitting on grass blackened in the fire Tiny droplets of love ricochetting off abrasive desire. There is still a stretch of moist green in vast lakes of chemical mud Escapades of the mind absolved by the gravity of blood. There are lilies among plastic nails Ashes strewn on forest trails But there is resistance to storm in the strength of these sails.