noon light outside cold inside
a few cuts of sun break through the clouds
once they reach you they are too week to touch
to enter
they keep shifting for themselves
they can’t make it down to you
you swallow them at once
everything seems breakable meltable cold
black brown and gray
the full range of the opaque and muted
that thrift and modesty allow
in that sober moving field the two patches of dancing light look wild
floating as if not touching
not touching the very surface
that does make them appear and dance
how little color you wear
like life in the raw
I shall buy you those flip-flops with the orange stripe
the last color I remember