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.