Colors do not care about each other.
They dance intransigently, sometimes
almost seeming to make love
but mostly not: the roasting pot
of oranges and ambers, rusts and reds
pours indiscriminately into shreds
of grey and beds of purples, browns
and blacks: devolving into autisms
of fading beiges, watery pea-greens
and other ashen hues, dull lacks:
blasted and abused by midnight blues
which lighten without warning into
robin’s egg. None beg for prominence
nor seem to need to star. Remarkable,
considering the miracle they are.
.
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