Clean Corduroy
White shirt pressed,
steaming, wish to
disguise, fracturing:
there is slight literalism
to your skin shade,
slight hanging hesitance
to your one of work,
dressing scissor slices,
but you don't hang in
ribbons and bows,
not nearly, not nearly.
But I fail one to judge,
taking drubbings from
temperance,
taking illusion from
coloured glass,
taking freedom from
sallow smiles,
but, at least,
pressed, cleaned.
Toi, Tu Pars
Like Americanized Chinese,
Japanese-to-English back translation,
stage management, shuffled decks,
hiding in velvet curtain calls,
slight of hand,
when we're gone as air,
in light reflection,
half-making of darkness,
but I'd make it up,
do something with
teacup ivory, with broken Cadbury
bars to mend,
and still it's heady,
cloud-covered, seeming
undefined, yet not shadowed,
speaking,
unheard echo, wooden.
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