was a duvet unwashed of its
past entertainments, a decadent sort of history
haboured in cloth.
"Secret" and secrete, two words of close relation,
bed partners, silhouettes.
Like a sponge, this cloak
pulls experience away to
perhaps a safer core, leaves you
hostage to clues, titillations,
puzzling stains, unexplained
species of scent.
Seems you can't help but bury your nose in this
complexity, suck it in mad, like
respiration was going out of fashion.
How to make the past
lucid once more.