You have eyes that flash
green with electric intent,
eyes that speak volumes
concerning capacity,
and I am entranced.
There is poetry inside
your pale, unlined face.
But it is a cold
verse, wrought in the vacuum of
a vivid cosmos.
Those eyes have only mastered
a small fraction of
the grey stores awaiting us,
passion plays in full.
Focus it in red
so that you might take it off,
that metal casing
where all your secrets are stored.
They will congeal in
the satin cloak of longing.
You will sleep sated.
Or walk with me to
the crowded corners of West
Avenue and 3rd,
where lovers dance and guitars
are wailing with sax
and staccato ivory beats,
we as all of white.
If you wish for the
more guarded extremities
of human conduct,
the black of night may serve as
a forbidden bed.
There are stories in twilight
that still reek of tar.
Or maybe you just
want to be, want to exist
as something at rest,
a small and placid wavelength
glimmering blue-- a
silent nurturer, calm and
unusual, too.
The carpet cast at
your feet is not unruly,
nor roguish at heart.
It is still closer to your
own olive windows
than any other color.
But ‘tis just one piece.