He’s decided that he’s had enough of color.
So he’s asked that I erase what hues I’ve used on him.
He wants to walk into the white and gray and black array
of something that, when you glance back then look away,
you won’t remember if you saw. Now his colors dim
to raw in front of him and brim out off his back like
streamers in parades gone by. He slides a sidelong eye
at me as if now to imply (I think, I’m never sure) I’m
bringing him to destiny. He says, “now do the rest of me” –
by which – I think (again, I’m never sure) – he means
he’s got the best of me and soon will leave me to endure
the certainty I never will know more. Will I be doing
with or without colors then? What am I doing
with them now? Again, I’m never sure.