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You are a child,
     Your mother, sewing, says,
Remember, buttons in the basket,
     Three gold coins on top,
One, two, three.

This was the initiation:
     You follow her scent
From scarf to pillow
     And down the
Path to sleep.

In the dream
     There was a waterfall,
Stones, silk,
     Catullus and calla lily,
I went there too.

But you were already gone
     When they knocked
On the window in my head...
     "An artist," I tell them.
He's an artist."
     There's no rush.

Red, summer, fire,
     Flannel against my cheek,
The coins fall to the floor, detached.
     You're the only one
Who hears.

Someone sewed pajamas for me
     In the dream, they were plaid.
You ask me for help, then
     "It’s the universe," you say,
Waking somewhere else.
 
"The universe is like that."
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Miss Jenette Purcell leaves her best clothes at home because the most beautiful clothes make it difficult to disrobe.  You see, she’s only loved with a constant soul Portland poets and poetry and fashion and art and you.  Oh!  And she wants her words to leave you naked, too.