Rings of blue smoke swirl

above her head like kisses
floating off a palm, or like balloons

of varnished silk that stretch
and lift her toward a parting draft.

A mix of comic strip and something raw
that worked in Lichtenstein's pastiche

of lines and polka dots; yet, somehow,
coming from her lips these figures

make us shift and sip - and sip again.
What is it makes us look away

as if remembering things to do at home?
Is it the clear distinction: what she sings

and what she knows?  That unexpected
nimbus of true thought?

Easier, no doubt, to look through
little comic blocks, dream-like

and Byzantine -- present,
yet one remove from present scenes.