Mysteryons XXIII

You hang your head in a gardening hat,
wicker under the shadows

I think it’s the knit that saves us.

As if the word silence, written on shoes
could keep the hallways silent.

Each lead is refused, little
trails of color line the sky,
messages written just for you.
Messages mistaken, shells revealed
and still a refusal to speak.

Hues do not matter to the palette.

We cannot bag the red shifting light,
the way we see from far away
keeps everything in a falling blue,
a dance and speak easy onto the neck.
Remember. Remember, undress.