The Man Made of Clothes

I saw a man
made entirely of clothes.

He was on a bench,
relaxed,
and his body slept not
twenty feet away.

How was his mind attached, I thought,
and where were his feet?
They were not in his shoes.

His toes laughed face up
in this
empty bathtub of folly
and his beard admired itself
with twinkling pity.

As the dust rose
this bouquet of body parts,
heaped like a speared rhino,
laughed loudly as hell.

The wind blew, fluttered him,
opened him up and his maddened teeth
spoke to us,
that yellowed mouth played
miraculous percussive music in the dark
halls:

Do return me to myself,
or don’t, He said.

It’s Ok. I can float.

The church of the outdoors has invited me
to stay.

There are ghosts in my arms and my
legs and my hands, He said, my
ribs are poltergeists
to the story of
my body’s house.

Plant me like
seeds, for God’s sake,
He said,

bury me
before I
blow
away.