The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,
like love from the mother of indifference.
I long for electric blue,
sweet pink,
royal purple.
My terrible snow covers my table,
the bed.
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,
Sound muted.
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.
Miniature Moon 