If she didn't color her hair,
what color would it be,
I ask,
making early morning holiday
bed talk
Gray, she replies
disputation, I say,
for I see yet much
brune underneath,
nary a single hairy grayling
smiling with affection,
she salutates:
appearances of a changeling,
perhaps,
I am or always be,
like one of your new poems,
using old words for new colors,
my rainbow always ends,
decorating our bed
