Poetry: Behind the Irises


Her hair is the color of sunshine, or night, or the waking dawn:

It doesn’t matter.

Her skin tastes like honey, or cinnamon, or dark chocolate:

It makes no difference.

Her touch is a leather glove, a gentle breeze, a cry for help:

It changes nothing.

She could be sweetened by silver, dancing in rubies, or fresh from the bath:

I might notice, I might not.

There is nothing of interest in her geometry,

Even less in technique.

All I seek is the thing behind the irises,

Be they aquamarine, dark earth or willow leaf,

The thing like a mischievous smile:

The enchanted mirror where we release.

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