Laundry

That’s blue, the poem

Of an early egg, a spray of foam

Or green, spit from a single shoot

Pushing, highward, violent root

Fond yellow, come? see? dandelion?

The beige of memory, sand, of time

More purple, spilt in royal light

‘Gainst grey and brown

Near black’s smooth sight

Then love,

A crimson filament,

The brightest hue, the strongest thread.

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