The dress. The dress undresses itself. Those buttons running up the back are bone. They pop off, roll across the floor in search of their body. Follow them. The bone corset-stays writhe free and slide down your thighs fingerlike. Crawl to catch them. The leather strap unbuckling, bucking against its stitching. Your hands grasp for cloth yet find only flesh, yours. Unseamed, unseemly, you are open on your hands and knees. Behind you the flesh red dress rises, its button eyes of the dead.