A blazing garment falls at your feet.
You stand colorless, transparent,
extinguished ambitions exposed.

I didn’t want to see the naked
parts of you subject to critique.
I never asked you to unravel

such a distinguished construction.
The fallen garment reduces to ash.
It never concealed you, but lent

a flair to your sense of being.
Now I see through you to landscapes
ripening in summer glory,

scenes that form the background
in many renaissance portraits.
Seeing through you relieves me

of a lifetime of pointless guilt.
Yes, I helped your rise to wealth
by stepping aside and spending

a decade roaming urban streets
that clattered and stank of fish.
Thank you for exposing nothing

and confirming my lack of loss,
your final garment blowing away
with hardly a wisp of apology.