Hanging in commonplace closets of plaster,
tempting colors from the emotions, the silk
slips like hidden thoughts from the body,
allowing a history of its own to flourish:
names, faces, symbols, intentions, which
are unknown. Questions are in the stitches;
and in the beckoning, as it is seen and absorbed.
A world opened. A forest steeped in radical
assumptions. Goodness held darkness.
There is the sight of black; there is its urging.
In the sense of it, a new sense approaches -
approaches from the heart of the apparel.
What can I do? Place my hands on the surface?
Or place your hands on my eager hands,
to be adorned, densely, in night-soaked cloth.
Lamont Palmer
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-black-dress/
