and if I crush this blue
against my skin, it is silk
and satin and gravel graze
-and-etching Braille against
these shards of silver. black’s
a bruise, abused darkness
waiting, ragged edge anticipating
the scrape of sky. hold that teal
in tender pockets; freeze the frag
-rant ruffled ruse of red, a
lacy lazy apricot left unsaid. a
smooth horizon cinnamon
simmered into steam. we know
what saffron means and we’re
not afraid to fling it. sing it.
sign it deep. steep ourselves
in leathered scale of emerald,
marshmallow mellow jeans.
Grace has us playing with synesthesia over at dVerse this week. Come play!