The Thinning


These guys try to make us
match moods to products

the way once,
under love’s spell,

we attached meaning
to sound,

attached sounds to objects.

The old magic won’t work now,

but it’s nice
to be reminded of it.


She’s a tease,
tears her skirts off

one by one.

Drops her petals
as if she could always
make more.

It’s tiresome.

We know
what she looks like

On a cold night,
we can see forever.

More Poems by Rae Armantrout