— Hudson Washburn
Brown, she said, is not a color,
It’s a shade of yellow,
Or a shade of red.
Shall we call it orange then?
Half my world mislabeled.
The other half gray,
A shade of white – black,
Disembodied blur, in fact.
She gets confused like that,
The early morning road sign – Slow Newt Crossing –
Then speeding through three states
Searching for sirens in the rear-view mirror.
I am but a vapor of this world myself,
Drifting along a ledge,
A spectral sea, fearfully blue, below,
Faulted sandstone, threatening red, above.