Who doesn’t like a bit of flash,
a pop of red
like a nosebleed
dribbling down a crisp white shirt?
To catch the eye requires a touch
that spreads along threads like a bloom.
But if the clothes make the man, then the man
is already unmade. A man like that is one loose thread
away from annihilation.
I need no adornment, but I know the value
of the machined
tension that holds a snake in place.
So it is that the silhouette of my body
in our bedroom
is like a gate
swung open to the darkness
I button up every morning,
so it is that I tug my cuffs
until a slice of white
appears, just enough
to signal my attention to detail.