Dawn Of Color

I sit at a desk that is not a desk. It is a park bench
     with an abridged heart. 
With a ladder I reach for the top branch. 
The painter and I are seated at the back of a coffee shop. 
We intently discuss the life around us. We are invisible
except for our hot beverages. 
We build the wall frown by frown. We throw the sky piece by piece. 
We grow on the vine between thirst and heaven.

The Other makes fun of us in his shadow play. 
He offers us cups of overflowing wine. 
The coffee shop is now in a cornfield. The cornfield is now in the air. 
The air is passing over backyards. Our guiding light glows
in the dawn of color. 
The painter gestures sunset into my shadow. I add sky to his wall. 
The Other tunes in our vision like a spoonful of fresh glaze. 

The golden hour is connecting with the twilight. 
The groom is reading a book on birds. 
The wedding is out in the waves
far from the evening's domain. The bride is dressed in starlight
close to the shore. The night is married to the surface of the deep. 

The telephone appears strange and wonderful
next to my Smokey Joe.
It rings.  No one speaks. I turn the telephone to the smoke
rising from the coals. 
The party on the other end of the line will hear the smoke. 
I tell them to listen. I tell them to listen intently. 
They are calling from across the street. 
I go to bed aware that I am close to two people.