MERELY SEED, as
colors felt as need. Red,
remembered
rain-iced-fire-trucks; or blood,
baked brown,
glanced at, seen, running dead
with fear toward
or from some moving flood
of other rifled
men. Or slow infused, as blue
that tips a pen,
or backs a book below blond hair
and hands. I knew the eyes were blue, new
to holding light
discovered on a page, bare,
that might
suffice what whiteness claimed,
until the sudden
black-stamped-death of letters
stilled its
further usefulness, and chained
to words that
clutter memory’s mind and fetters
chance’s fleeting
opening of doors that sear
my hands, still
makes me watch the winter pond
as gulls and
smaller boys in disbelieving fear
that I might miss
that silver, secret sound:
when quick, our
single moment’s stillness wakes
the chance the
instant takes to freeze and clear
itself enough to
bear the cutting steel of skates,
rejecting final
dreams which fallow doubt creates.
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