Those are the colors we want
but what part of this world
is blue? The color of wet streets
and windows, the color of last
chances and long distance?
Who tells who how to see
the color of breaking, the shade
of pause and dusk then
knows how tired it is
to feel each one separately
as stabbings would, the only
melodies of time where
quick modern cries
take place between pills
and she breaths sorrow
over it and again, sorrow,
her biggest tear keeps
falling from only one eye.

Testimonial: yes, the stories
here are all a vibrant red,
a laundress' curse
but they tell audacious lies
on the coast, one by one
they swerve and spill
to end up the still gray
color of washing water,
there where the streetlights
trick darkness into morn:
come here again, open up.
This is what to do:
ink, sun, turn over.