Stored in mason jars, lining the window ledge.
Blue sulks unruly, demands salt or else
a pleading syrup. Ochre whispers Italian,
Loneliness is a hole nothing lives in.
Carmine, like finger notes poured from the ram.
Let’s pretend. You be the happy bear,
sugar-coaxed, sipping this sherry pinked
aniline. . . .