The Soul selects her own society,
then Shuts the door.
e. dickinson

Friday, August 17, 2007

excerpts from the Little Black Dress poems, for Karl.


He remembers in baby blue,
when Coco first tailored the
woman's suit, except he
lengthens it 6 inches above
the knee because she
had beautiful knees that
were hardly seen; two buttons
conjunct the cap as periods
to keep distance aligned, her
shadow throughout the
base of sport.


Only her fingers and face
touch what occupies the air, not
another's; it does not. Belong
to any other place, but that
which enters K's mind; a whiteness
cut by the release of black stiching,
while the rest of us watch
from various degrees. He
stands in the wings holding
a compass in his pocket, not
telling which way to look.


She is covered
in lines of restraining order,
as though marked
by solid strokes of sharpie; K
likes the pencil effect of
non-attachment to skin
and conceals every part
with cows & sheep; the
animal detected in
a single line, wearing
its last breath to keep breathing.


Hair told me
in one ear to "strut
the sentence like
no one's business" &
she swung her purse
like an exclamation mark
down a short paragraph
of silver sequence 3 inches
above the knee
without turning on the t.v.


She walks through
velcro of November,
wind covered
in a cap, listening to
the interior of soft black; she
likes the sound quality
of not thinking, but
being in place while
an audience
moves around her.