Maybe you think if you sit always inside it,
zipped up so the nylon scratches your chin, then
you will sweat out your nightmares,
and your whole mass will evaporate, squeezed
and pushed out through tightly-robed pores.

Or maybe you think if you are never without it,
(even when heat makes it slick where it touches the skin),
then the pigment in your chest will expire, sun-starved,
and translucent, you will stand spinally clean.

Or perhaps you don’t think; it’s a matter of feel:
that the air tastes safe (dark and smooth), poached by black;
that like petals or seed pods, the sleeves (silk-like) massage you;
that the chrysalis, from within, smells like rain.

It’s a galaxy, your jacket, you collapse ever inward inside,
pulled by the gravity of some siren-sung world.