The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,
like love from the mother of indifference.
I long for electric blue,
My terrible snow covers my table,
Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,
the sound is muted.
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,
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.
Singing into the bush
a lilac on a lark.
A love like October,
orange and fast.
The lilac has a heated language,
a boiling pattern of speech.
Frost is mute,
The lilac leans toward the Bush
A waxy, evergreen sun,
Pumpkins fight with lilacs.
Frost is the winner who takes all.
He casts his net among the rocks.
Broken jaws chatter beneath the water.
Two towns over he is a baby licking
his mother’s paintings.
Today he is a glass hunter
All shine and no stick.
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,
with or without her face.
The touch of her mind on the water
Life and I do not care who we have.