I fingered de la Renta’s opalescence
And a flowered thing from Vera Wang
In Women’s Intimate Apparel. Sense
And raw tactility attuned, I sang
A seaman’s chantey to your moonlit breast,
To Gauguin’s portrait of La Javanaise,
To silk, its secret wormwork and the rest.
The buttons, belts, and bows, I sang their praise
For half an hour in the parking lot
In search of my Tercel as seabirds screamed
Through drizzle Christmas Eve. I praised the stipple
Of the Maker’s rose-moled world as dreamed
Against the garment in my package, not
To mention praise for buttocks and for nipple.