Storm on a Sunday

.

The ever-present impatiens

meld to one solid color, every photon

releasing either platinum or pink, and soon

the pink will be platinum. I too am molting color,

bleeding all wavelengths off into the periphery.

Where are the reds and purples and lime greens?

Aquamarine against lilted yellow sky?

The wind slips through cracks unbundled:

ineluctable soup of dream, an old dog barking

inaudibly with its own way of saying gray,

light gray, and the long perfect note of white.



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