Boy With the Flaxen Hair
Who thinks with the other side of his brain,
You're not of this world either—
I can see things like this, just like
you can see through walls
with that stoic stare. The stare
that can bring down towers as
as you walk. And talk. But not like your thoughts. They're loud.
I can hear them rattling around, I can see you
behind those bars.
It's almost like looking in a mirror miles
Do you exist in colors, too? In large sheets of
canvas and broken pastels? Perhaps your world, too,
is bottled and corked powder that you mix
with lemon juice to pour over
that pale skin that probably
hasn't seen the sun
Are you ghostlike and enigmatic,
lost in a flurry of your own nondescript thoughts,
scribbling your way to Freedom
(or perhaps to Europe)
in spiral-bound notebooks?
Maybe Debussy should title a piece
after you too.
I would play it in the dismal hours of
morning, while you're asleep with the rest
of the world. I'd tiptoe quietly
to your doorstep on my
fingertips, hoping that
88 ivory keys
may be just enough