Color: the Hell you Say?

The sight of memory is gray like a morning fog;

it whistles and it rustles where it shuffles by

toward that snowy countenance we call a tunnel.

 

The sight of memory is her tanned thighs parting

to the man with scarlet hands and Rudolf nose,

there in the yellowing deck of fallen leaves

we, in grassy youth, called our home.

 

Poor woman, her own sight bitten by the pallid dog—Time.

 

I can still remember the tar behind the scream

when the ocean froth carried me away.

Rain, rain, orange in our dusk departure

from sensory deprivations rainbows left behind.

 

The sight of memory is royal in the velvet swell

of new springs, rooted in fresh earth our toes dug up

when heart and mind planted rouged foundations

against the gnawing whisper: Sienna’s a bastard color, anyway.

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