Color of the sun unhooking, sinking into and under the river

while there’s white sperm between my fingers again.


Color of heavy water when it moves, the way luster

lets you know it’s alive. Runner, a daughter in the way


of the wind during the dewy time of day. Color

congealed— fat off bacon in a jar, waiting


for special occasions. Wonder of an empty page.

Color of honesty. Color of divorce papers in the feeder


of the attorney’s printer before the black text and gold seal.

Summer, or a foggy memory of someone’s face you met


when you were younger. Fur of a newborn tiger

before the black stripes fill completely in. Color


of the mother’s busy knuckles as she scrubs stains

from her daughter’s underwear, or color of unlucky lighters,


if you’re asking my friend Timmy. The living we discover

we took for granted—the inside of the apple before


it colored. Delinquent piñon smoke that hovers

for a block or so as you walk the dog around the neighborhood.


Color of a great waste of sky, everything that suffers to be more

than just potential. Wrapping paper. An erect collar

on a scholar or painters pants, the sclera of the sales support
woman rolling her eyes. The sun dragging the moon like

an echo, another delinquent, nobody’s darling, but no less

wasteful because it can’t be kept. Good teeth. The color

of feeling smaller when your GPS shows you stranded

in a field, or a parking lot, or a tarmac. The soft of popcorn,

not the bite. A baseball moving so quickly you don’t see
laces. Useless without collaboration. The black sky


after it pins light into its hair, before color overtakes

color, creating a blind spot, like an idea taking

hold of you, or the suffering the pool goes through

to stay still.





Orginally Published by: The Cincinnati Review