Fits

Swift, who knew a few
Things about words, thought
Of words as clothing

For thoughts. It’s doubtful
That experts who write
On language these days

Would imagine thoughts
As naked humans
Dressing themselves up

In the cloth of words.
For one thing, it would
Entail a reverse

Of Anderson’s tale
Of the emperor—
This time, just the clothes

Remain visible.
But imagine that,
A city of clothes

Wandering around.
You can’t see which thoughts
We dress directly,

But you can observe
The patterns of cloth,
Our varied colors,

Textiled behaviors,
Creature-absent shapes,
Not alive ourselves,

And yet so lively
In our hollow way.
Think of libraries,

Newspapers, air waves,
Digital webbing.
Doesn’t it make sense?

How many humans
Have you met in flesh?
How many costumes,

On the other hand,
Of how many more,
How many, many more

Disembodied words
Have you encountered?
We aren’t whispering,

Wet-lipped, most of us.
We’re floating fabric,
Husks of thoughts rustling.