Sandy Player

My faint white wardrobe
Opened with two scarlet handles,
The clothes are on the inside,
Cotton, some silk, housing legions of you.

I stand choosing, indecisive,
Combinations cluttering my mind;
Colours and kind blinding those eyes
That powder into black sand
And put space, that deep desert,
Between my right ear and my left.
My head emptied: death to life to death.

Frozen.

Meanwhile, yellow-striped moths
Crawl out your mouth and mine too,
Line after line, not a few; trillions.
They eat, feast on evening suit to the right
And darned brown cape on the left, even the least
They bring to inexistence, their evening dish.
To drape, i wish, on beggar's garb, i wish.

I'm stood staring at my
Empty wardrobe, no say left;
I am right naked,
Exposed to esposure
And nothing.