Colour, Dolor

 

The sky broke in half today. Leaked blue rain

to yellowed ground straight down.

Wounds of light bleed on and on and on.

 

A pit in stomach on the talk show circuit, everything’s

so damn tired, from my forehead down to ankles

stained by grasses.   Emptied out am I.

 

More desert than virgin forest,

now. Where has the moisture gone?

 

Where are the peaches soaked in sugared juices, eaten by

these chosen edible ones, where is the kettle stuffed

with vegetables, the ones baptized of lessor gods, those who

refuse to enact  the  frozen art of rancor?

 

Don’t you know my gut needs this hint of fruit, at least one

minor hint, to mend?  Wounds of light bleed on and on

and on.

 

The sky is broken and still my cries unheard unheeded, this is

not whining! Cops stop and roust us all in daytime strolls

to Safeway where we often shop, our pony-tailed hair

apparently the sign to hassle freely.

 

Go ahead , eat your vegetables all up, let the chipped white

bowl overflow with plentiful hues and tones and shapes

like tools and toys so odd,  it’s all you’ll ever take from me, 

I know. 

 

Blake wrote centuries ago about grief laced (thankfully) ecstatic :

"Colours are the wounds of Light."

 

Bleeding through bandages of simple time, these days

of morning chill, warmed over coffee,

I could not agree more with thee,

mystic erotic Mr Blake.

 

These wounds of light do bleed on and on and on.