|True to Form|
|© Beth Roberts|
Every eve the tilt back of the head to cloud
sunsettling thought, shh, aim to be true.
The cap of one's personal evening.
What do you put on and what retract
to get that blue: mistress distress, the newest
shade, something will be made of that, a sky . . .
What would you do to disguise your hunch,
what discover. What process of illumination
to undress, which piety, whose starry eye . . .