Pure Color

Open, close, then open again —

I’m all lungs and fingertips,

thinking about the pseudo-green

buds I saw yesterday.

Too early for them, probably,

but we touched each other,

and I smiled. Living in endless

summer, it’s easy to forget death

until it’s too late, until it’s right

there, bleeding bird

on the doorstep crying to get in,

and I can hear it now,

with that damn white wind blowing

thoughts right out of my head.

But as I sit with my back

to the window, my hands begin

to unclutch themselves

and the half-moons on my thumbs

wax into convex — little tides

of March I cling to all needy —

just before I turn around,

half-expecting to find pure green.