The Poet (who tries to describe you)

cannot put words together
as beautifully
                         as

your eyes
         (blue)
                          and
your hair
           hair
    hair      hair
hair             hair
                hair  hair
                  hair    hair
         falls across your shoulders
                         and
your neck, long and slender,
          do.

Eyes cannot comprehend,
                nor the mind see
your strength of spirit
        the beauty of determination
                      indomitable
                willfulness
                     playfulness
       schism of self
lover and loner

          too strong to be loved
in words alone.

Looking at
       the way you                move
  and walk
and hips
 and legs
  and arms
    and hands
      and fingers
and the way your eyes squint
          or widen
 or narrow or glare
            at times when you want to glare
                  or smile
              at times when you want to smile.

All this, see, is to express the insufficiency of words to enfathom you:
                   The poem must remain unfinished.

Wallace Stevens

I have this grey, striped tiger cat,
Whose undercoat is a dirty white,
Yellowish, like a mountain lion,
And I named it Wallace Stevens
Who, too, gave names to real things,
Which made their beings quite different
To us,
But not so very different
To themselves,
Like this jarful of blackbirds.

Right now,
On Monday, November 12 at 11:00 p.m,
Central Standard Time,
This cat that I call Wallace Stevens
Is licking his own fur,
And will not be distracted by names.

To Whom Job Said

Shooting stars are evidence
That even the universe is
A work in progress,
And much younger than it seems.
What if we are the first planet
Of billions,
To declare [H3068]?

There must always be a first gum ball
Out the gum ball chute.