Color

A world of color is rich,

is all I need in this fog as heavy as malevolence.

What I need is a glass of hot pink,

an elixir of glowing purple,

a tincture of pool blue,

languid and electric.

My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale

on my bedside table

while a documentary on contemporary

art stabs me in shades of black and white,

Sound muted.

The Gaping O

 

I am an absence of air.

Paris writes me telling me not to come.

Many things have fallen

into the gaping O of love.

 

My sick senses stretch like a violin note over

a ghostly concert hall.

Halls are caverns.

I have a hall inside my city

And he waits there.

He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,

I the suction of quicksand.

Water

Look up water.

See what books,

so fearful of the subject,

refuse to stay.

Flowers gasp to stay afloat.

His desires spirit him away.

His desire to finger the piano,

her

with or without her face.

The touch of her mind on the water

regal red.

Life and I do not care who we have.

He is

crunched afterbirth.