Photograph by Tim Walker

On the tree hang twelve party dresses:
bell-skirted, ruffled, pouf-sleeved,
all lit from within by hidden bulbs
so their mint-green, turquoise, apricot
and yellow glow Iike underworld princesses,
or the spirits of long-shuttered ballrooms.
If I walked naked beneath the tree,
one of the gowns would drop on my bare skin,
lift me from the earth, the too solid earth,
and I’d become the cherry spirit of this July night.
Young again, hair tumbled past my shoulders,
my throat long and taut like a stem.
I’d whisper the ballads that I’m too old for,
Just put your sweet kiss, kiss on my lips now baby.