Looking For Eugene

by Richard Taylor

Eugene was indescribable, that
was the trouble with him if you ventured
beyond the ivory crescent of his smile
into the night landscape where shadows
kindled his skin and warmed his eyes.

His shadows are not alone; my white shadows
wake in the same place, anonymous doubles
waiting in habitat safe from the wolves lurking
in day’s plain shade.

But Eugene has seen how morning’s mirror
holds each fellow flesh blue–black or brown
or bronze, blood comfort to its keepers
on the streets at noon,

when shadows gratuitous and well–informed
come face–to–face, heed the pitch of his forehead,
the trim slope of his nose, his cheekbones
polished with night.

Invite him to the off–center of your eye now as you
look aside into night’s neighborhood. Close your eyes
long white –out blind; cleanse them in dark mercy
and see a lithe shape part the night before you —
he steps forth.

Practice the black keys to equatorial airs,
black nativity and the great brown garden
from which we come and go below an African sun’s
indifferent eye.

Dance black upon vast tidal mud that colors
his memories and step ebbing timeless and
returning with the moon and agate tears
for a mother’s kiss.

Tend thus the garden of dark images conversing
among themselves at a dusk picnic, the shy index
of adjectives laughing across the palette of all colors,
endless selves, maps of original desire
beyond our fated oddities.

Word arrives, a revenant bird
from ancient expedition touching down
on a sprung bough. Flex the moment
and look up.