Every red haired woman in the world has worn this green.

When the movies went to Ireland in 1952,
a chorus line of lady leprechauns tricked out 991—
satin caps and satin shorts and snappy satin vests—
greeted Gene Kelly as he danced off the ship,
and down the pier,
and through the town,
and over the hill,
slick two-leaf clovers of green rumps blossoming behind.

Blue-green, really, an August color in the shade,
deep shade, a shade of the texture and the longing and the 
            long afternoons in the Alabama of Kurt Weill.
There is smoke in this green, smoke and romance, 
            as Susan Hayward in a hoop skirt strolls the verandah 
            impatient for her swain.

So what we've got here is a movie green,
the designer Edith Head swirling out a bolt of 991—
always in satin, only in satin—
and draping it around Rita Hayworth,
who is perfect, and smooth, like a woman made of peaches,
peaches and cognac and vanilla ice cream.

How can God make such beauty?

How can God resist?