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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