Am meisten gelesen ▸
Dave Bonta
We make ourselves
impossible to express
in clothes, like
streets with carpets
of gold and silver,
our eyes at last
overcome with what
we have seen,
going home drunk
in the evening suit,
rich with embroidery.
I can take mercerized cotton
And make a never-flower beautiful
By thinking of tulips growing in windowboxes;
I can work into cloth
A certain hushed softness
From an imagined scrutiny
Of a lily's skin,
And embroider conventional designs the better
For thinking of brick garden paths.
But if I go farther,
If I follow the path.
Fling out the gate,
Plunge one breathless thought over an horizon . . .
My hands lose their cunning.