Laundry Mark

Beachcomber hair. No lilacs there. Sandy.
Voice could pound you into the ground.
But she lifted me.
Sitting there, her eyes unnoticed,
Soak the color from my shirt.

I never did her body justice.
Random curves, endless straights, I never saw the whole woman.
A toe, a leg, a breast. Known topography.
More interested in the choreography
Above her neck, than below.

She asked, "Wonder what it's like to dream in color?"
"No, never trusted vision."
Doing the dance.
Misunderstanding mutual. Seeing.
We would never understand we.

Me with the words and she the wizard spells.
Her math; her science.
The world laid out in line. Line up. Clothesline. Coke line.
These warped lines were mine.
Dissipate. And I sit, in my pressed and faded shirt.