15 May 2019

Postcard 166

Hung high and sweeping,
the curtains are thick with concealment
Conceal is what they are hung for

Every fold rolls into darkness
Caravaggio, velvet close
That there is drama is withheld

The lovely terror of warm thighs in soft tension
Around every downcast Christ, around every looseheaded John
is darkness bound tenebrism. In our language a temple is a woman

Your dress darling,
light caress of your padding footfall,
wraps itself in holy mysteries confounding

Confound me --
curtains reveal curtains
folds roll into new folds

There is no harm in some secrets -- only catastrophe
From blue, from purple, from scarlet twisted fine, from sin concealed
rent but by jealous hands. What would be revealed?

Curling toes, will of night
Timorous flesh-thick femurs -- mighty bone
A window...

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