Kimberly Lyons

Is it the glassy, empty potential of the unfilled blouses their prescient capability, flat as catalogued moths hung on racks that require realization? A poem, for instance, pulls something thin over itself. A transparency with a weird fur collar. A skin of microscopic dirtiness. Or, is it the soul comes to clothing already intricately made. seeks a garment a white horse hair to enfold its deviation pink as a petal, foldable as a Kleenex. It’s raining outside the thrift store at night. My clothing is stained by strangers. The poem slips away through slots of lace liquefied as a fat caterpillar dressed in the capsule of a  cocoon.