Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Dear Overcoat,

In you I become an old man,
a raven, someone’s
uncertain doom; in you I could carry
the Prince of November’s
one dozen pockets, home

to a pebble, a pen
and a knife,
you stretch me
you catch the wind,

you are a plowed field
for the first snow to fall,
you the fashion
I’d been

to hide myself within,
oh overcoat,
of moths and mantle
of fog, the means

to mask my unsculpted
body—I found you in
a secondhand store,
I lost you
in a pile of coats

at a stranger’s
party, or did you melt
into some midnight
closet, where unexplained

or unseen hands
swing you
on a stern
and clanging
metal hanger?

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