it is hard to see colors
at this end of the call—
your laugh and query,
“Guess what I am doing?”
obscure my deaf eye from
the hued tangent upon which
you move: red, black, white—
the usual setting with forks
always on the left…unlikely—
You the Contrary, Opposition
to muted dozing, the excluded middle,
embrace the empty palette,
breath chromatic density,
the deep feast of an evocative mixture,
tinctures caressing the clown’s canvas.
I imagine your fingers, dipped,
frosting your face, this sweet margin,
the drifting patina of grief mixed
with huddled mud and the generous
stippling of this season’s contours.
yes, it will play in Berlin—
and a thousand other places—
a glimpse will puncture,
the encased weight of
a headstone’s runes…
and place my hands
in your tender pain.
Wayne Bornholdt is a retired used book seller that specialized in scholarly books in philosophy, religious studies and the humanities. He lives in West Michigan with his wife and two Golden Retrievers.