Ever wonder what the paint tastes like
Dashed in green and glory across a canvas?
Or the fragrance of that poppy-red hue,
Still liquid-y damp on the wall of your sister’s nursery?
Surely it would be a grape, a snozzberry.

That flat canvas, black with paint,
Sticking to my fingers like charred maple syrup –
Shouldn’t it be beautiful to more than two senses,
To more than eyes and fingers, sight and touch?
Shouldn’t that marauding orange burn just like a firecracker’s burst
Or a stray flame from the sun itself,
While the Chinese-lantern white
Shines itself across like a moonbeam.