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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