Mercurial, or: the way your eyes look
When the curtains are drawn and we are the only ones in the room
Merc/your/ial, rather, more explains the way your eyes are hot jazz
Do you choose what you see, baby blue?
Do you run your fingers, like a comb, through each follicle, until you choose one
To wrap your fingers around and call home?
Mer/cure/ial, instead, I feel you in one, hot flash.
Zip-snip and farewell to trousers, baby.
The other men spoke soprano sax but
My mind shifts its way towards you
Because you are all blues and tourmaline and mercury-eyes,
And whoever said the roaring 20s was anything other than this?