Friday, December 25, 2009



No. Not really red,

but the color of a rose when it bleeds.

It's a lost flamingo,
called somewhere Schiaparelli Pink
but not meaning pink, but blood and

those candy store cinnamon hearts.

It moves like capes in the unflawed

villages of Spain. Meaning a fire

layer and underneath, like a petal,

a sheath of pink, clean as a stone.

So I mean a nightgown of two colors
and of two layers that float from

the shoulders across every zone.

For years the moth has longed for them

but these colors are bounded by silence

and animals, half hidden but browsing.

One could think of feathers and

not know it all. One could

think of whores and not imagine

the way of a swan. One could

imagine the cloth of a bee and

touch its hair and come close.

The bed is ravaged by such

sweet sights. The girl is.

The girl drifts up out of

her nightgown and its color.

Her wings are fastened onto

her shoulders like bandages.

The butterfly owns her now.

It covers her and her wounds.

She is not terrified of

begonias or telegrams but

surely this nightgown girl,
this awesome flyer, has not seen

how the moon floats through her
and in between.

Valentino photos here. Hepburn photo here