Michael Earl Craig - Poem lyrics

I like to exist in seers**er. Only the best all-cotton seers**er. Shorts and shirt. Details details details. And when I'm in combed cotton chinos I want them relaxed-fit. And wrinkle free. And I want my polos from Peru. I want them so soft and silky I feel special just slipping one on. That's what I call it, slipping one on. Like when a wash of mountain air slides in. Like when an unusually huge crane flies over and you feel that patriotic rush, those other engines, rubber fingers, like withheld velvet. It's a coming home to Mama, a whisper into the delicate ear of blowzy dawn, into the side of dawn's head (there's a hole) which tilts slightly, listening. Characteristically is how children lick bookshelves. Stoically is how the bookshelves take it. Philosophically is how a corpse might settle. And terrifically--terrifically is how a day old rabbit hops, how a who*e snorts, how a whip cracks, how a castle flashes. Are you familiar with how a castle flashes?