Lack of Color

Intense gravity, obvious pushing
deeper into ourselves the more
overcast the skies are… Doesn’t
fuel her fires with dream logic–

even if time is always upside-down.
She can break out of character,
I can feel through opaque facades
not hiding in the dunes tall as her

capacity to veil sensation
like everyone else, ready to face
numbness, a revolution to speak
the truth. Caliban clawing within,

feasting exotic flesh under virgin
canopies, or peach trees stretching
along the pavement with afterglow
of nectar, but out of reach…

The urges don’t stop fighting,
but tell her moon will come and go,
the shadows will continue to grow
into our hands, and mouths, and eyes.


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