A whirlwind in a Thrift Store assembles nothing although it suggests a shape. A bowtie, swung on air, flutters without function because no neck is there. 5 There is no bleak coordinate to rally the flags and flairs; no hairy simpleness untwisted when bras and socks litter ascending stairs. Eyeglasses doubt their doing 10 (no matter how pinched and proud their glare) when through their frames of hardened ether can go no softened stare. But a belch out of Brahma that moves through our tube of voice 15 (no matter the nakedness of our stance) can clear the spirit's molten soma or club bright diligence to trance. Red suspenders written by a finger on some supple manikin we love 20 leaves a mental trace that lingers far longer than any snapping does. Yes, clothing is the vocab, the richness of what's said, the silken bounty of hot balloons, 25 the droll draperies on the bed. But it is the Alpha and Omega of eye and heart and ear that fill out their airy outline with the grammar of a dare.
From the collection "The Soft Assault"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.