Draping clothes within
The confines of a closet,
Where shadows seat themselves
In the metamorphic folds like
Starlings roosted in Hawthornes.
The clothes hang like floor length
Curtains shoved against the casings
Of a single paned window--
Nude and tangled with folding,
Shuttered with hoar frost,
Rattling like ice coated branches--
Beside a window leaking the cold inside.
Watching the shiloettes of yew trees
Shaking off last nights light powdery snow
And convulsing in the wind like mad people.
Red berries spot them-- silent, quiet,
Whispering like well troden, compacted
Snow, like black ice
And beautiful like ornaments
Hung on a living cut conifer.
I imagine them to be like so many
Other fruits made into compotes--
Cooked with snow white sugar
to make their flavor sweet and macerated.
I imagine cashews to be the meat.
My other hand aches so much since
It was touched with that slender epee
Like icicle. The air inside this miniature
Room is so cold since the end of it
Was placed inside the canal of my ear.
The closet enshrouds unfolded
Partially buttoned clothes and polished
Shoes that get arranged neatly inside this
Very small room like things
Guaranteed to be clean.
"When you come back inside
From walking in that semblance
Of salt encrusted earth,
Stop taking off all of your clothes
Because you're angry at the world."
copyright 2006 Samuel Lewis Nelson
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