sometimes i write (about tablecloths).

Imagine linen,
not as an object but
as a feeling:
A falling over your hands
and wrists fluidly,
watering you, feathered.
Whisper-soft in
its parachuting down,
sliding off scratched wood.
Carried to the wash room;
armful of plush peonies.
A thousand words and stains
bleached-out to silk.