not what it looks like

He loves a girl who yawns like an iris.
He hears the curl of her smile
when she speaks.

I take him by the arm through the shop
describing colors as soft, rich, warm.
Not dark, bright. Not autumnal.

His useless eyes in the nest of his face, blue
as robin eggs, motherless, tilt heavenward

I lift blooms to the swarm of his fingers
watch him trace the symmetry of oblivious lilies

by feel until he finds her
lashes in aster, tip toes in hypericum
her mouth in begonias.