night rests on the coat tails of day

sliding into the warm clothes

cast off by the sun.

alone, i watch

day’s delicate striptease

as night follows behind

picking up skirts and bras and panties.


old woman day walks into the burning sun,

smiles and vanishes behind the trees.

night turns the clothes

to smell day’s fragrance on them.


who wears the clothes best?

i cannot say…

each night: a new threadbare frock.

each day: a new spectacle waiting to be sloughed off.



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