Now it’s the only one left in the wardrobe

slanted sideways on the tarnished rail, looking

over its shoulder, swinging

on a padded sateen hanger.

Still not out of fashion, though seasons

of going are always changing—baby,

bridal, through all the shades of fading

into one colour, any colour, the only colour.

It wears itself lightly, this dress—floating 

on butterflies, closed wings praying.

Always the perfect fit, ready to slip

so easy from its perch; this year, next year,

sometime. It sighs like silk

inhaling the dust of its own passport.

A dress for departing on a single ticket

with a bag of bruised apples, half a loaf.

It could be night. Or autumn. Or soon.

Sometimes you can hear its half-creak,

this side of ghostly, straining for the date

of release; the brilliant daylight; away.