The dress is green —is suspended where sheets flee in the breath of a breeze, eager in its suave suppression to recant the plea that weaved want with sex and fastened the flesh to its faults. The dress will be green-- when the last waltz tears the seam, severed in the sweaty shelter of a glistened breast —when starched pants redden and seep from one mouth into another. brooke © 2004 |