‘Crystal Runners Down Your Cheek’
I don’t think we get power
from color.
I think it’s a hindrance;
roses bloom because it’s spring,
not because they’re red.
I slit your skin,
and contact with air flowers
the white meat,
and you curtsy
to the blood.
Bow before the cross,
Rosicrucian—
nails like stems,
grounded roots,
and a flute plays
a melancholy,
if nothing else.
I wish you would,
I really wish you’d flood
whatever I have left,
so that we could start
a starry and blurry
nursery of thought.
Worship every workplace—
every hue
a ricochet,
flown through a funnel
to some rear-seated lobe,
and it’s a trope.
We are all brains,
I hope.
It’s my closest plea,
programmed as we are
by media and algorithm,
by those that think they’re better—
and they aren’t.
