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.