His palette, Technicolor shades
of Kodachrome-induced mordant dye-stuff;
his tint neon; his blue
the blue of windshield washer fluid;
his yellow exclusively nuclear.
but not any moon, a moon that encircles a paint factory
where the brushes bristle over who
revolves around whom. Translucent green reeds grip
the water’s edge and bend their top-heaviness
toward the centrifuge of radiation fallout.
over gossamer-wing clouds? A giant breast.
Or a white chocolate Hershey Kiss.
Same thing. It’s all the same thing:
sex and food, art and god.
Dickinson used the word tulle
to denote the ethereal; even silk
is too heavy with the weight of this world.
Even prayer gets short-circuited, rerouted,
translated into waves that never
touch the shore no matter
Rumi’s shepherd knew that everyone experiences god
in her own way. Still, Moses had to be told.