Black and Grey

Red, the color of roses
beneath faded blue, the color
of a german boy's eyes

around the white organs
of a novel I wrote when
I had nothing to say;

a dirty street sign with
the word "run" spray painted
by some ruffian over a command


is my confusion common?
and we run as if we could
ever catch "ourselves"

in colors or words or
symbols. It is no mistake,
we are moving through even as

the book is closed, even as
our best stories dissolve
into black and grey.

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