Stark umber and sienna peel away from their slender frames. All the naked ladies align themselves outside my windowpane. Their mauve, their plum, their cherry, their crimson, has shed itself to the desolate ground. They align their tiny, autumnal caps. They captivate sweater vests, scholarly glasses, and strong hands. Their torsos are peculiar and misshapen. Their informalities are alluring. Their freckles play. They are nude and simplistic. They uncover their moles. They are bashful, and full of birthmarks.
Perfect, clay men pause to observe them. Their leather bags rest quietly at their feet. They linger, in awe—longing for the sensuous whistle of gapped teeth. They are captivated by belly laughs, and the wiping away of excess words from a wet mouth. Their ears draw back. They unbutton their innocence. They become boys.
Blossoming, naked, and unashamed--their unruly eyelashes gaze deeply into the horizon line of a November sun. They clothe themselves with strength and dignity, and they laugh at the time to come.
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