Walking encumbered with heavy blues
seems less shitty when viewed from above
-like from an artist’s loft
with his medley of yellows and greens
It probably looks like a blooming flower
or unfurling fern or maybe
a Busby Berkeley number on a busy day
But here at the level of purgatory
there’s a sponsor for every malady,
pockets of alone in every crowd,
bird jazz on the windshield,
and a crazy notion of love healing all.
Sunset is a red fuming cry of frustration;
the bloom is what’s left on the palette.
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