The Dress is Green

​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