[Well, I'm posting one more poem before I take my pause from regular blogging to focus on a longer-term project (and I may break the silence again if the muse takes me unexpectedly, as she often does).]
My hollow has a metal sound.
My hollow is sounding this way:
A hinged flap clangs,
tapping against its empty cylinder.
There are cinders in the tender
trap I laid yesterday
to catch a glimpse of a gleam.
The gleam leaped from a small crinkle
in the steel, and got free
before I could show it how much
I loved it.
Then, I closed my eyes.
When I close my eyes, I can see
flares of color.
Monday, it isn’t blue, it’s red,
a ruby splatter creeping
its stain of warmth to the very edge.
Tuesday, it’s blue. Tuesday is
a sapphire pool slowly spreading its wet
to cool off Monday’s hot.
Today is Wednesday. That gleam was
supposed to be my yellow.
Without it, what I see slips back into a black
velvet landscape they’ve re-placed inside
a cheap aluminum frame.
What I see in it is
what I saw on it, when the black was more
sheet-metal gray, and it was and is
a wounded robot hand-painted white
across the wastes where my human mind
once played with colors.
It’s collecting glints off smooth-faced
granite with its sensitive sensors for eyes.
They’ll help fill its hollow,
a hollow suddenly sounding less metal.