Mother stripped the sun
of its color each day
before putting it to bed.

This has nothing to do
with the long ago
Spanish lust for gold and inquisition.

When I smell flowers
it is as if someone sprinkled blossoms
inside my empty skull.

I carefully pulled my fist apart
before chatting
with an unmasked stranger.

I looked at her with carnelian eyes
edged by
turquoise crows feet.

This has nothing to do
with incongruent syllables strung together
by the overtaxed homeless.

Mother dressed the sun
in saffron robes
to flavor the stranded morning.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

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