Mouth marks on mail skin,
the stamp, the red leaf:
your neck postage, Eugene.
Large, PlayDough lips,
still moist with Vaseline
Crinkled thoughts often low,
though never extreme;
your mind is a mezzanine, Eugene.
A dimple for your thoughts;
its intermittence indicates
frequent gain and loss, Eugene.
Blue pebbles, eyes,
your father’s eyes; I’m sure.
You hate with the eyes
of the one you hated, Eugene.
Each razor lash, a poised katana,
raised in salute, bowing down occasionally, too.
I believe they call this blinking, Eugene.
You, the skinny almond, large,
and with pit holes of emotion.
You swing and you swing, Eugene.
You’ve got the seasickness motion.
It’s because you came from the sea, Eugene.