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The Language of Color
Only when the Darwinian greenery
began to unfold in the basements
of God’s institutions,
tossing off the little seeds
that used to stick in the
bulbous craws of the blue goats
in my dreams,
only then were there also blossoms
posing as eyes
posing as noses
posing as tongues,
waiting for the machinery to stop.
When the light began
to dance underwater
and the glaucous fingers
of time uncurled,
muttering in the sunpowered babble
known to hummingbirds
known to the fine skeletal
antennae of cobalt fish
(the pale shadows of mermaids)
known to herds of anemones
glowing with an inner light
impossible to reproduce,
then the wheels began to spin,
our grandfathers waved their
personal flags in the dark,
petals unfurled in the rhythmic heat,
and sparks of color became
the true food of the soul.
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