Citrine

Hangdog scuffs in
Picks up a palette knife and says

Three things she’s always had on her mind.

The second is snow
Coming in line-drives

Suggesting, only, something as
Important as the dark. Mere

Elation, pretty phonemes.
Like pearls riding

A fat black lady, hung by
Someone who mistook her for

A concert grand
And never would have told.

(The first was
Unintelligible.)

The third is partial
And about feathers,

Or rather
A feather,

A blue one, and how
Someone told

Her its color
Was structural, not pigmented.

As if she could make a citrine of herself
By reaching harder for her toes. As if

Her body could brighten
What illuminated it.