For Stacy
No, one will not look good in grey;
her simple dress would make another
vanish in a crowd of two.
Needless to mention those red shoes.
— Hey, The Police! Bowie, hey! —
No, one could dye one’s hair black,
put on the whole range of lipstick
coloured red, contact lenses
of such a blue and fail
to appear like she did,
even if she didn’t ever want to.
She made plain the most charm
a come-closer finger can attain,
defying us for matraquilhos,
a game one may look up
and find no translation for—
It suits me fine, impossibility.
No, one could try to smile
carelessly, practicing harder
day by day and never achieve
her delicacy of blossoming
whilst being, simply.
