By Peter Halstead

Attracted by a pillowcase,
My striped red shorts
Paste all sorts
Of wild displays

On its nearby laundry,
Exotic solar appliqués,
As sea reflects the sky
In ways you don’t expect,

Risqué optics
That turn up now and then
Without warning, tricks,
Or waste: the mountain

That myopics miss, that space
Denies to sight:
The figured bass
Of the planet’s sleight

Of hand, or face—
Visions, dreams, and myths
Too small, or chaste,
To make the suns and mists

Of summer shear,
Or the voluptuous undress,
But that sleep here

Tippet Alley
March 7th, 2007