never so pretty as when she was
dancing, and after,
leaning breathless against
the wall,
head lolled back, eyes blank
seeing herself with
her self dancing. .

Trying to Paint a Redhead

Imagine a solar system
with every pigment
at your brush-tip.
You fall in love
with the entire palette.

But red!
The way sun through a window
catches single hairs in tresses

of a girl you'll never
see again.

They used to burn redheads
as witches.
They say the gene for red hair
may become extinct
within a hundred years.

In your studio
this morning,
only an empty coffee cup,
the ashtray,
her incendiary smile.

Taylor Graham's book The Downstairs Dance Floor won the Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize.