the sky
is black

the Sun

off-
white

to see them as we see them
we need to get some air into this space

things as they are
and blue of sky
or of guitar

let them
open a window switch
the light on

the real
is hiding, perhaps
under the bed

and your picture you sent me
(as if now on offer) of
your beautiful bare self
I wanted to
match it with a flower
of a perfect colour
(perhaps pink
to contrast your
gorgeously dark skin)

but the flower I picked
just trumpeted in laughter
said
my pink is
not for you, or for her
(who has her pink too)
these hues that you need
were devised for
the bees

that they might come to us, love us, bathe
in our pollen

exactly as her picture is
intending with you, self-
styled poet figure

not knowing
inside the
truth of the flower
lies the
truth
of your poetry

how it was
conceived
evolved coincidentally

the sky
black

the sun
white where the
waves do not bend
get
diffused

and roses
still red
whatever their symbolism
their refined
lyric use

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