A negligee on a mannequin,
How a piece of lingerie
That will see the stitch of a woman’s body, 
Stares from her pedestal in a shop,
A lone corner where a scarlet
Red baby doll, states her claim
To be bought and paraded.
How a piece of clothing, that is
Both a harbinger, and an invitation,
Toying with a woman’s heart,
To let her become as sweltering as
The tropics, how every piece
Of lingerie is as easy as a Commodore’s
Song, on a Sunday morning,
How a woman’s dream, stands alone
Like a lantern, through tinted
Glass; the glow of skin, the radiance
Of a woman, whose one piece
Baby doll, waits for the moment
To orbit her own ankles. How all it takes is
For two strings to slip down shoulders,
And befall to the pull of gravity,
While a moment, when she feels the cold December air,
On her naked body, and she raises
Her ankles and climbs out
Of a floored garment, a piece of lingerie,
That is, one moment, an invitation,
And the next, a facilitator,
How musky odors emanate, as love
Burns like a wildfire, while a piece of lingerie,
Now a voyeur, looks on the from
The bedroom floor, shaped in the form,
Of a halo or bagel, as if an angel
Had fallen from grace. How
All it takes is an orbital of lace,
To make her navigate another body,
With no compass, only the blurring
Eye, embracing the plume in front,
How pealed lingerie, is like
A bird skinned of her bloated plumage,
Breaking the hold of hypothermia,
Insulating her body with an incandescence,
Decorating her skin with the thermostat of a man;
A fashion, that will always remain,
Pret-a-porter; ready to wear.

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