Couture

1.

Peony silks,
            in wax-light:
                   that petal-sheen,

gold or apricot or rose
            candled into-
                        what to call it,

lumina, aurora, aureole?
            About gowns,
                        the Old Masters,

were they ever wrong?
            This penitent Magdalen's
                        wrapped in a yellow

so voluptuous
            she seems to wear
                        all she's renounced;

this boy angel
            isn't touching the ground,
                        but his billow

of yardage refers
            not to heaven
                        but to pleasure's

textures, the tactile
            sheers and voiles
                        and tulles

which weren't made
            to adorn the soul.
                        Eternity's plainly nude;

the naked here and now
            longs for a little
                        dressing up. And though

they seem to prefer
            the invisible, every saint
                        in the gallery

flaunts an improbable
            tumble of drapery,
                        a nearly audible liquidity

(bright brass embroidery,
            satin's violin-sheen)
                        raveled around the body's

plain prose; exquisite
            (dis?)guises; poetry,
                        music, clothes.

2.

Nothing needs to be this lavish.
            Even the words I'd choose
                        for these leaves;

intricate, stippled, foxed,
            tortoise, mottled, splotched
                        -jeweled adjectives

for a forest by Fabergé,
            all cloisonné and enamel,
                        a yellow grove golden

in its gleaming couture,
            brass buttons
                        tumbling to the floor.

Who's it for?
            Who's the audience
                        for this bravura?

Maybe the world's
            just trompe l'oeil,
                        appearances laid out

to dazzle the eye;
            who could see through this
                        to any world beyond forms?

Maybe the costume's
            the whole show,
                        all of revelation

we'll be offered.
            So? Show me what's not
                        a world of appearances.

Autumn's a grand old drag
            in torched and tumbled chiffon
                        striking her weary pose.

Talk about your mellow
            fruitfulness! Smoky alto,
                        thou hast thy music,

too; unforgettable,
            those October damasks,
                        the dazzling kimono

worn, dishabille,
            uncountable curtain calls
                        in these footlights'

dusky, flattering rose.
            The world's made fabulous
                        by fabulous clothes.