in making them look, cosmetically, as supermodel as they can
—do they spellcheck the flawed faces and walk them one after the other
—a powder, lotion, lipstick, mascara—or do they
pick semi-random irrational faces
on the conveyer belt of bold bodies
blueprint boxed & planned—letting them rally
as a spring-summer collection?
is it easy enforcement—plus-minus half-optional—or is it madness?
does the collection turn into a complete catalogue—pick and
pushed out of a circumference of regularity onto the radii of a
hysterical hyperdrive of trends at the speed of light
into a black-holed center
as the seated clientele watches them illuminated on the runway and try
to sample what the designer has
similar-shapes and steps—passed on or shot from an unsafe distance
—seeing what is shown and unseeing everything
that hides shadily behind the spectacle.
The accumulation of your covering
kindness approximates to what
would be my whole life. I consider
your company, a canopy over the understory
of my troubled existence. You pose as
the protecting umbrella that completely
shades my incompleteness, an inability
to bear the glare, a simulacrum of rejoicing
under your supersized shadows;
so femininely cursive and delusive,
an illusion of what I refuse to discard.
It’s a reassuring touch though: little light
and little leftover love sprinkled enough
to keep me alive, but not let me outgrow you.