Underwear
Attracted by a pillowcase,
My striped red shorts
Paste all sorts
Of wild displays
On its nearby laundry,
Exotic solar appliqués,
As sea reflects the sky
In ways you don’t expect,
Risqué optics
That turn up now and then
Without warning, tricks,
Or waste: the mountain
That myopics miss, that space
Denies to sight:
The figured bass
Of the planet’s sleight
Of hand, or face—
Visions, dreams, and myths
Too small, or chaste,
To make the suns and mists
Of summer shear,
Or the voluptuous undress,
But that sleep here
Nonetheless.
Tippet Alley
March 7th, 2007