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A flash of French
yellow skirt
      on a chilly evening
but then who can say
what it was,
billowing just
like a memory of
damask in that painting
or a slit in this silk
of the universe

diffuse as dear
stars that no one notices
      even if they twinkle like sequins
until the wind shifts, swoons,
layers lift, and
someone picks up
the hint, then gazes
in the space of a gust
on the sheer.

© 2005 Tara Deal