I say “blue” but mean beautiful looking.
Making words imitate living things
implies the minorest immortality that isn’t
mine but could very well be. Purple
stands for “Please, your restful
purple little eggs” and there’s got to be
a better way to keep the animal in us,
because the ghosts aren’t enough.
The pink ink stands against the rim
of night dressed in finest fur, I think
brown but mean bears, really, and owls,
and werewolves. It looks like blowing up
the moon was the right decision to make
but I’m still waiting for that darker
darkness that’s passing over us as a form
of property, striving to reach a mythical
point where it unfurls like a bandage,
completely swaddling the desire to name it.