My wardrobes are facsimiles of you
carrying with them the unprinted text,
invisible ink lying about where it was
from what it was: pieces of cotton
and linen that lies there dormant
in the wooden frame, whispering
what have I done, will you
wear me again, and smile?
It’s that stupid Murakami shirt
The one that murmurs:
‘Don’t let appearances fool you’
mirrored and unreadable, a mirage
like black and white swirls to fall in
and lost. Somewhere, a crumpled shirt
for the optical op-shop bin, creeping around
silent as a fractured thought,
the everything from nothing that whispers
and declines.
When you put it on cloth is
a chainmail of memories, halting arrows
of her that scream and thrust back
over war zones of muddied masses
to the simple said words, actualised by
innocent amicability, that say over the battlefield:
my dad owns that shirt too,
the one with the moon and Murakami words.
