Purgatory

Amatory TALLINGS Laundry drops into the trees From overlooking balconies And hangs, mid-plummet, in mid-air— T-shirts, socks, and underwear— Gone papery and shapeless, stiff, Bleached and ragged. It's as if These were the husks of soiled souls, Empty now, and full of holes, Flensed from bodies, hung between Two lives, for winds to lick them clean, So that they could be worn afresh, Pure as any new-born flesh. But these will never rise or fall, Caught in the middle. This is all: Exposure to the elements, The sun, the wind. The raw suspense. 33 ...