Like the man who thought
every phone might be ringing
for him in Calvino’s
traveler,
I think that the colors
of the world are all
meant for (or trapped in) me.
Rose and carmine and indigo
detonating deep inside. How oil
insinuates into engines, so
lisianthus lubricates the rounds
behind my purpling eyes,
the curves at the joints
when I bend,
stirs the blood that drips
when I crush red
in my hands and scream
with joy the tint
of my tongue.
I am the one you see
asleep in your beds
at sunrise, in the evening,
picking through the amethyst,
lime, and red primrose
and when you shout
for the law I laugh,
leap into the yard
next door, and the dogs,
they bark me on as the day
rolls and the colors
oil and frisk in my veins,
swirl in my fingernails
and the lightning strikes
as I run, mouth contorted
with the embrochure
of sweet, sting, and leaf,
freezing me
white in the field.
