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I meander between our racks
sweeping my fingertips over hanger shoulders
plush faux fur, yielding silks, buttery jersey knits
when they shop they see robes, chemises, rompers
but not me

I see a cabin nested in a crib of snow
panes aglow with orange fire
open hearthed and hungry
smell the earthiness of burning moss
hear the hiss and pop of damp wood

I see leaded windows top-story in an old inn
I hear forgotten ice settling in a champagne bucket
Scrabble letters scattered like confetti over
a puddle of stockings and hooks and eyes
feel cold cotton against heated skin

I see the slow stroke of rattan paddles across the ceiling
smell coconut oil and sweat
hear gulls fighting over a deserted picnic
taste the bite of chilies and the musky juice of oysters on finger tips
feel the release as one by one bows are undone

today a chemise of stretchy lace
plunging and as red as Italian poppies
will find its place in my drawer of well dressed fantasy
waiting with the others
till he who shares my visions
finds me

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