We could strip
The clothes line.
Or just watch it
Carry fine silk
Until the winds blow.
When they do, gossamer
Mornings’ll turn powder
Sheer nights’ll blind, trembling. Winded.
Let’s beat the mistral to it.
Come, let’s spin a yarn, weave a roof.
Stay away, puff. Our fabric breathes.
Delicately, slowly, it breathes spry mirth.
Let it, puff. Let it inspirit itself.
We will sit here, and look at it breathe.