And the tilt of your head above a decidedly outdated taffeta blue dress
which you wear because you have no mind for fashion.
But the red one is gorgeous,too,
and pairs well with the dog at your side
the white wool you spin,
hidden in the folds of a skirt covered
in a pale blue apron.
bow lightly held, ready at a moment's notice
but absentmindedly unnecessary in a pale yellow light.
An aura so beautiful in all its pastel pink,
carved from and given to the canvas over and over
until perfection seeps in.

Who made you, anyway?
your face speaks to Rembrandt
while the rest of you calls to another;
a white horse out of place and a dirty background undone,
moving onward to an unnamed end,
caught in transit.

You’re like one of those fashion interns
As you walk so lightly in afternoon chatter,
5th avenue and 72nd,
finer than any runway in Paris.
A final stop and pose at the steps,
To pay respect to the silent hollow in Manhattan
To dive into its embrace,
the taste of a coke fizzing on your lips.

After the show,
exiting through a deserted sidewalk,
Between the Zoo, through an underpass
Backtracking a wild goose chase
for the imaginary hole in the wall.
--Unfound.
Pursuing the unknown familiar spectators,
Painted and still behind the gate
Waiting for music to which to perform a dance
beneath the cogs and golden rings,
Ready to whisk you away, round and round.

Yes, just one ticket, you say.

I tell you as that’s how you appeared,
Hair outshining the basement coins,
Burgundy shoes marching hard
In the pursuit of immortality.

But all I knew was
I liked the color of your star trails
as you hurtled toward your own unknowable

ideal being.