fingers raw and damp
I sensed the shape of colors
diagrammed across the easel
sky with wings whose feathers
were so fine an atom would be fat;
I wept the spectrum down my face
and tasted rain from cloudless skies
that clouded over crucifix and waterloo
and clouded over buchenwald
where thin trees drooped then
pulled up roots to walk into a sun
light brown and spinning 'round.
When mama told me all's a dream
I hit refresh upon the clock --
five minutes more before I sleep.
by Ken Peters