Anatomy of a Dress

Attendants! Admit it: you cleave
To song for safety, where
Silence signals, where drone displaces
more than sound. People who make
illustrated sheets of us
Cannot think of the close dark, the
Pinhole shriek, the photo-negative
Of inside, looking out.

Attendants!
At your threshold, find
A wafer of flesh suspended in water
And if it’s offerings you’re after
Here’s I-don’t-know-what-else,
Here, from the backseat of a
Dusty Honda, I give you
Fuzz of white moth
A grounded
Single engine

Gutted prey on the floor of
Your luminous gold mausoleum
Where you call for it, find the
Illusion of fur: a fine white
Grit on your waxen floor
Favored by bears for its lipidy
savor. I live where the light
Starts, guard the hinterlands that
Lie between our ordered
Cells and that bountiful riot outside.