Her hair dyed mint and teal, like summer.
A Holy Afternoon, she’s shelving books.
In pages I’m looking for God, Home and
a young woman named Alexandria.
That hair of hers, the color of a favorite toy,
a ’65 Mustang, I pretended to drive to LA.
What worlds does she know, what worlds shine,
in soft brown eyes, in the curated childhood chapel?
It might not be Pandemonium in me, not even a suburb,
just a lens that needs cleansed, and maybe we’d be infinite.
I make jokes checking out, and try to make them magic spells.
It never seems right to ask about a show down at the club.
But words I use to try and find the sky, and learn her truth,
and capture the light in these lines, that shine from soft, brown eyes.