It is
possible that I will
be
nothing by the end of
day,
that I will
disintegrate in
the dry air of this
room
where no breeze
blows.
And to
protect myself from
these
inevitabilities,
curtains have been
pulled
and drawn upon
themselves
as a canvas where
the artist painted
the scene
and his portrait eyes
the room in which
oils still
supple mark the man
when he
turned keys against
the latch
not to enter but to
lock him-
self away.
I have this
luxury: to scrawl out
my last will, my
testament,
a cypher in grains of
sand
on this firmament
where nothing holds. Need
drives me to fire,
white-
lightning and
moonshine
and a match poised
to answer the only
question,
What color shall I
be?
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