Cloud of Unknowing

The denim of the ‘90s

have always been 

saying goodbye.

Just now I was walking

through a department store 

closed or closing, unsure

but there they were —

fresh unworn

tables of Tommy

Hilfiger yet emanating 

indigo in the same 

dusk that buds know

in the time before 

they breach the soil

to accompany us

and share in the narrowing

fate of Spring.

I was sad to finally 

get their message 

and say my own farewell,

running my fingers 

on their petal-soft folds 

as the aisles lead me

to the exit, where 

the light radiating 

from the doors' twin 

portholes seemed

too bright to be 

the day — deepening 

the dark surrounds,

no pants recognizable

but loaves of shadow

carbonized, unwearable

as the cold tubular 

steel panic crossbar

of the doors met 

my hands, my eyes

hurting so that

I closed them

as I opened

the doors and

went out.