Spectrum

Sometimes it comes on red: the animal
is angry and astonished, tasting blood,

or orange, like a sunset you can taste,
the light as rich as butter on your tongue,

or sometimes yellow: the attic's plastic ball
so sunny once, so sticky now with flyspecks.

It comes on green sometimes: you feel the plash
of frigid streams that feed the earliest ferns,

or blue: the moody sea that smells of brine
and octopus and moans against the shore,

and sometimes purple, like an embarrassed king
remembering incense in his moonlit room.

Sometimes an incandescent passion blends
the molten splinters into one blank ray.

by Jon Corelis

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