One messy palette

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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