What is it in landscaped swirls,
In the blurry fingerprint of dirt,
That grabs the eye like distant girls
Whose opalescent fashions skirt

Our passion’s superficial lies,
Blown along like seagulls strung
On avenues of skies,
Topographic jewels hung

In the silence of the sound,
Flying shadows of the blind
Wild homing dance of ground,
Where my hands so quickly find,

Hidden in the spiral of your curls,
These hazy bright specific pearls?

September 19th, 1990