Ravish or Enrapture: Still, It's Toward Transport

Ravish or Enrapture: Still,
It's Toward Transport

Sometimes arriving late means coming in from behind,

spine first: the tight delight of a cuff perfect and tucked

tail, not a dart or pleat out of line and the review too good

to miss.  It’s like this: the whole rack gets along quite

well parenthetically; each collar and yoke a susurus, as though

they've been told to go the opening of a private show or

(this is provocative) during the moments the placket's 

laid down on the podium, shuffed and lined up

and tipped in favor of the audience, catty-

cornered and face down to only lamp in the hall.  Arm rising,
the whole congregation shuts up abrupt as snuffed kindling

in a mid of March wind.  Someone's spoken.  Soon, what

was quick to stiffen goes limp.  Soon too soon the heat goes

over the cliff cold and its only on the way down

you know you’ve arrived and you'll lose

your shirt entirely, and the parting

(while maybe not starting with fire, while maybe

hung on to with two hands at the base of the taper

and shaking so the liquid light spatters) isn’t glided

so much as (right?) guided spine first then held like 

two seamed gussets (thumbs are useful too, at first)

until swift as a swallow- switched- mid-

drift, lifted to go in past the front pocket taking

their time taking the squeeze the shimmy the jockey

on the back if in a waxed saddle of words there's slipping

the tongue tip alone but the only thing to go dry on the outside

while the root, the root, the root is pulled pulled

and there’s edges sweet and smooth there’s edges

thin and serrated, there’s edges of lips almost always

behind the light of the late arrivals and taking off

the jacket only reveals a straight spine

not the curve (at last) at the middle and suspended

at the hip