You could not say Kevin Kiermaier’s eyes looked like the remembered
Blue of your older sister’s nail polish remover, 

Towed from shelves, dutifully regretted, litigated — the fumes
Of which smelled of camphor and surgery and sent a cancer

Galloping through the limbic system.
Though they did look like that. 

You could not say Kevin Kiermaier’s eyes, astray between seafoam and indigo,
Looked like the linen yachting pants 

Of the man who fired the man
Who fired your father back when 

Men like your father didn’t get fired.
Though they did look like that. 

You could instead say it was the blue
Of all those habitual things — a lover’s eyes; robin’s eggs;

Or the irises of a lover’s eyes sculpted out by potter’s hands
and replaced with robin’s eggs; 

Or the waters of the Maldives, where blinded lovers
Swim with robin’s-egg eyes.