See my colors fall apart? Green br to yellow with just one shade gone, br the changing tints of your sun-struck eyes, br if there were sun. Today the prism held to mine’s br br a prison, locking in the light. In one of those mirrors br the colors are true. In one of these pictures the pigment’s br my own. The sound there is aquarelle and indigo, br and dripping distant water, the day’s habitual failure br br to be anything substantial. Today a blank like color br by numbers, filled in with fog that frames the lake br in transient tones. That’s the color I mean, some mist br painting the shore pastel and pointillist br br rain, painting the shadow between window and light. Today br each hue dissolves in humid air, transparency br I try to grasp and then let go, clear overflow br of waves on gravel. The mist with its single-dipped brush br br smears itself across the canvas of the pines. br The pines, knowing no better, run together on a morning br palette. Today the scene’s dismantled, that can’t be br dismissed. I once was blind, but now br br I see my landscape attenuate itself, drowned lake br of evergreens. On a morning like this with new crayons br I drew a man, that red valentine br in the side. The picture of two hands scrawling the outline br br where only one thing’s missing; the crayons scattering br from childish fingers.