I like to exist in seersucker.
Only the best all-cotton seersucker.
Shorts and shirt.
Details details details.
And when I’m in combed cotton chinos
I want them relaxed-fit. And wrinkle free.
And I want my polos from Peru.
I want them so soft and silky
I feel special just slipping one on.
That’s what I call it, slipping one on.
Like when a wash of mountain air slides in.
Like when an unusually huge crane flies over
and you feel that patriotic rush, those
other engines, rubber fingers,
like withheld velvet.
It’s a coming home to Mama, a whisper
into the delicate ear of blowzy dawn,
into the side of dawn’s head
(there’s a hole)
which tilts slightly, listening.

Characteristically is how children lick bookshelves.
Stoically is how the bookshelves take it.
Philosophically is how a corpse might settle.
And terrifically--terrifically
is how a day old rabbit hops,
how a whore snorts, how a whip cracks,
how a castle flashes.
Are you familiar with how a castle flashes?