Life With Horace

poetry & essays


The Scarf

The eye sees silk, pale
green perhaps, hanging
loose over oiled
bamboo, and waits
for a breath to set
it floating, a sail
slowly calling to
the skin, conjuring
a weightless cover, settling
without fanfare, suddenly
warm when it rests on
breasts, or arms, or flanks,
then sparking shivers as
a hand pulls it
slowly away.