The hot winds of Fall blow
Schiaparelli like in their passion
scarring the land pink with their heat
piling the warmth of the day
into Hartnell like towers of profusion
Our heated confusions
resemble Gibb’s fabric madness
and we melt.
We long for the chill days of February
seeing instead hot holidays approach
a politeness of social formalities
when we would rather be
hiding from the scorching heat on
a secret sandy beach
or hidden in mountain stream
We, soaking in our Rudy Gernreich topless
swimsuits over our own
find ourselves uncovered
Fall ended, and we are
molded back into
militaristic Guy Laroche tweeds
wrapped in Leger elastics
our eyes are caught and
lives smoothed by
Lloyds shimmering floats
Betty Jackson’s joyous light layers
or seeing ourselves in
Paco Rabanne’s plasticized reflections.
When winter arrives
we ask ourselves,
does anybody make a plain cloth coat?
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