you are just a prism, angling up my eloquence
        in yellow, just a plant—

    the mountains grew you from a trickle to a falls

and then you asked about yourself

                winter into spring a cantaloupe cloud
        or dizzy as a beaker full of light
frothing over spirals of kelp
                twelve mermen dried the sun, my source

you have folded Satan
        and I'm walking on a crease

just where one hue glued our tongues
                        did you notice?

I had left a thought inside you

that you opened without hearing
        and you told me in a butterfly
an endless list of colors without listening