A friend showed me what Barthes wrote about sight
and continuity, without which we’d all break our noses
on walls and, motionless, imagine pain as grit and red
somewhere ahead:
“. . . space can be constructed only from completed variations,”
Barthes wrote.
And so orange and olive brushed onto water
by wind are instances of purple, blue, and pink
emerging slowly as the clock ticks and we step
closer, step around, step out, making as we ambulate
and see.
Water and wind never stop and olive and orange
will always be also purple, pink, and blue.
Light scatter, the crash and crack of surfaces meeting.
I fall into color and close my eyes.
