Traje de Luces

What bulls see in flags

flows in most veins

as clear as stains

inside lines of chalk

where the dead drop,

or twisted on the pole

of a barber shop

sandwiched by

a melting cotton swab

and a babbling blob

built up on a brush

falling off Picasso's dot,

a shoe in for bruises

on the King of Rock's foot,

even stealing Sinatra's look.

If the whole lot

ran together,

Prince would

sing the weather.

America would

paint their mountains

that way in songs.

Majesty often sews

with what else on robes:

a hue so bright it burns

blank light to the only

shade for high standards.

Matadors rely on such

crayola swords to kill color

run amok in fine China stores.