Blue Jean Reverie

Eyes stare, avert, stare, avert.

Islander flesh smiling,

peeking through

from a horizontal slit

in cutoffs, pointing like a finger

to the vertical slit nearby

that leaves one

punch drunk.

Hips sway, enchant, swain, enchant.

Sun baked pigment, the same

as everything else

visible and less sacred, but

closer to the cotton-covered

birthplace of all things

cosmic and karmic.

In we go

into

indigo, these vertigo transmissions,

cerulean, never certain,

always searching for something

to define the transitory effects

of a young girl in shorts

on this old man’s mind.

Heart sparks, crumbles, sparks, crumbles.