What you rise out of may not be dirt,
but what you breathe must be air. On an indigo chart, we drive
without a future, left to wish outside the forward rush of things.
Who would not leave the mess for the illumination, the culture
for the poem? Believe in inconstancy, a colorist. Forgetting the
orangist is only a pomologist, not a painter sent home for lack
of design. The night's a plateau. Where would we be in desert
night, deserted. Constantinopilized. Oranged.