I have taken off my little dress, there’s no scope
for me within it, there are things
that fall down the body, like breath and the texture
of the flap. This is a button I can’t do.
I don’t want to argue on the easy side. “Don’t expect
an audience or a reveal.” O, the little dress
shimmers in the near breeze as I’m falling down
my body and, at last with my ear to the ground

it’s too late in the season to please as wind removes
my feathers and shaves my bones with that first whip
of change, and each winter, if it comes along, do I
need its great coat, will I have done with cumbered sleeves?
Sometimes I could do with the humour of a petticoat.
O, let me part the clouds, let me in.