on white and the santa fe night
      
the woman lives on she
lives on in her life.  in white.
in my life she is a frozen still.  a faded facial
flush.  a nonaligned neutral all white-wearing hurt.

in the background in the needles in the pins in
the lacerated ouches there she is.  convalesces
softly in the parches of dessicating white gauze.

white is the color most implicated in human suffering:
red cross red crescent red army red white and blue
so sad to break this to you -- you -- wearing white.

"white is the sum of all colors."
please -- let us not talk war reparations just now.

i took a match to a match
cover (white)
and things sparked.
but it was only for a moment (of white).
what is the lesson.  what is to be kept.
the complexities of mismatched sincerities.
the memories of the rose garden of fleshpetal warmth.
the poetry.  maybe.

bitter warmth is better warmth
than no warmth.

together or apart -- it is just so:
both the woman and i would like to live by
where the sun falls imperially where
the darkness stalls where
the wind fondles crags ravines knolls where
the stars freckle wink sizzle echo spit and
seethe in eye-teasing flirts in yellows
in cyans in violets in saffrons in
oranges -- yes stars arc and fall in colors --
maybe not where you all are but all

over santa fe.

Marek Lugowski

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