If we could tear color from our sight,
would we see more clearly?
Would it correct the wrongs?
Relieve us of our prejudices?
Pullovers be based upon
speed or suspicion,
our vision shades of gray.
We’d stroke our slate skin,
bleed gunmetal gray, breathe feathered smoke,
live inside concrete,
wander gardens made of ash.
No more cardinals or bluejays.
Rainbows could be drawn in pencil and
the shavings could be used to scathe our eyes
should a rose dare to bloom a dewy red.
Or an azalea leaked magenta, leaving us speechless,
carving holes of longing in us we didn’t know we had,
before the punctured canvas repaired —
our memories erased of a beauty we were unfit to bestow.
Back to our smokestack camps, lined in hazy sandstone and soiled snow
to view only shades that blind and bind.
Where would the filaments of green and the…
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