Back there in the deep orange valley

you threw your arms up and waved

a metered hello-goodbye to each

and every color you could see.


They could not be counted on hands or feet,

fingers or toes,

in sunspots

or in veins.

But the married colors called.

They look happy, you said.

They taste like candy, you said.


You guzzled the candied-apple sky

and mocked the spotty minefields

that tortured you

and held you


in opalescent suspense.

You rummaged for the spectrum,

but stumbled singularly upon



Take off your makeup.

Strip the color-blasted walls and paint them eggshell blue.

A safe shade.

Forget the din that this iridescence makes.

Colorblindness might be good for a change.



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