  Cry the names of colors And fail to reproduce The brightly worried way In which they burn ideas, Sweeping hues of intangible blood Into the conspiring fires of soul: The darkly reticent manner With which they embalm emotions, Ending the spontaneous treachery With a self-possessed attraction. Chant the names of colors And fascinate the brown Coward, who surrounds himself With crystal safeguards known as facts, But likes the dangerous sounds Of unattained realities. Or, scorn this satirical advice And storm the body of a woman With words as deliberate as wind, Yet heavier, and bearing Colors without a label. The substance of her hair— Ethereal stems that continue their quest Beyond the warped confines of sight— Shows the darkness of intellect Answering a miniature sunset Whose dying light does not quite succumb. The steep reserve of her forehead Has been kindled by a flat burden Pale as the cry of a child, yet carrying The hint of trouble found in late afternoon. Her eyes hold emotional evening, With spurts of dawn remaining like anxious relics From that derided realm where logic dies. Her breast is the color that a north wind Would have if it were visible to eyes. Upon her body, color in light and darkness Subdues the ribald ponderousness of life And brings the filmy, flashing seriousness Detested by the prostrate toil of mud; Hated in taverns at midnight; Banished from every couch when morning Rearranges the ancient jest. |
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