House of McQueen

Blush slash shocks callous London. Worth
built his own house.
Others consider cloth’s ripple, want
a red flare to flaunt.

Finery’s patterns indeed shift to threads, line
draws down interred silhouette.
But while we live awhile here
pattern and line gather

quiet that is anything
but quiet. Each time, dream delights
as if a small wing beats, and leaves
dance under our transient skins.

Copyright © 2017 by Valerie Wallace. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 21, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.