Material
When you
have swaddled your head in vermillion
linen to
block a glint that widens like a coo
into a dim
room striped with amber light;
when you
have lain below a sink, hooded by an apron of
mauve lace,
and peeped through eyelets at high panes
dappled with
yellow and lime;
when you
have sat on a bathing house step in the late-winter sun
and bundled
your brow in a rough wool scarf
steeped to a
sea green as the wind rushes;
when you
have leaned against the bleached stone lion that guards
the coast,
and wound yourself in sacking,
binding your
own wrappings
with twine,
as the gusts
lift past a scrubbed seawall—then,
set,
bonneted,
tied
and laid out
on the cool salt shore,
flat under
bright sun you can slowly tune
a white
light for shut lids to become.
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