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