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The text says that nothing in itself has color
But the jagged prism has it, and something in your
Own brown sees blue; and so the censure
Of the sky, if you don't look, must be paler.
The peacock shines at the zoo; stick him in the cellar
Listen to the razzle-dazzle throat. The lure
Is gone. But the natural darkness will endear
Phosphorescent foam to a night sailor.
It's strange to think that the pigment of this skin
Has not the Renoir shades, stranger to call
It flesh. What eyes are behind, what within
The thinking fingers, five black bars of a jail?
Who sees your pride at the mirror, brushing sheen
Into the waves of that that you name your soul?
CyNT&IA PICKARD