wrinkle in a smooth shirt
as she sits delicately
thinking someone will notice
the gentle slope of breast
beneath the cool green of silk.
Be
aware (unsaid) of the taut fabric
pulled together across me
like some thin sweater worn
against a chill, I will
be a stillborn smear on a slide
dispassionately sought
because eternally caught
in my own hide. Folded surfaces
I am unable to sing wordlessly within,
because the creases hold fast
the dead and me,
the not-quite quick enough.
See
how what rests against her
never rests
quietly inside, can only brush
smooth against the skin
of thoughts that tuck
themselves together,
random threads lapped into pattern.
Yet still she will
sit with a crumpled shirt
experiencing the smooth
relationship between
silk and skin.
Deleuzian
of depth.
Each
layer a different surface
turned under to create the illusion of self,
all pleated, expecting, desiring
to be unfolded somehow
(when least expected
if romance were real)
for in the unfolding
forever.