My eyes pour gifts on me,
tissue paper crackles all about,
scotch tape sticking on wool,
my sweater walking itself
beyond the unseemly ash
into the heaven beyond a shred of doubt.
Color as gift outlives the receiver,
it turns astutely to those
who walk the manmade streets black with asphalt,
they argue whether crimson outdoes the gold,
or if both outdoes spring green.
It’s only talk. The color outdoes them both.
You have no choice! Pick up your walking cane,
small fires are smiling in the brain.