Saturday, May 11, 2019

Jack Scott writes

Color Drain

The color drain last night 

bled the flavor from my dreams, 
reduced that universe 
to shades of white and black, 
added weight, then took it back.

Wandering in the blindness 

of my loss of rainbow 
as an orphaned next of kin, 
I found the world an X-rayed place, 
fleshless, without beauty 
where beauty should have been.

Dawn arose without a spectrum, 

the light came up without it, 
and everything was gray. 
Looking for a rose or apple, 
I found only blackboard 
with its chalky dust.

My dreams are missing. 

Whose am I having? 
I wish they’d tell me 
what they want from me 
for the ransom 
of my own kaleidoscope.
Cy Twombly, Untitled (New York City), (1968). Image: Courtesy Sotheby's.
 Untitled (New York City) -- Cy Twombly

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