Scene
This is not color: this is not green, this
is not young grass in rain, vital;
the world is not as it seems.
Perceptions formed by the holy
trinity, the clandestine communications,
the plunging electricity, twitching-
the language more precise with practice
than choked, petty words
between you and me.
Abstracted reality, in biology.
This is not color: I cannot find a parallel
to this, a tubed substitution labeled
“Used Fall Grass, Drowning”,
it cannot be reproduced, to hang, painted.
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