I splashed some colours from a tumbler
and smeared drab world with emotions.
I charted on a dish of jelly
the jutting cheekbones of the ocean.
Upon the scales of a tin of salmon
I read the calls of lips yet mute.
And you.
Could you not play a nocturne
with just a drainpipe for a flute?
1913
5:23 π.μ.
I can't promise,
but i'll try.