I
                       d
                    e
                 h
              s
           a
        l
     p
  s
some colores from a tumbler

and
s m e a r e d
the drab world with emotion.

I

          r
          t
     h   e
c   a   d

on a dish of jelly
the jutting cheekbones of the ocean.

Upon the scales of tin salmon
I      r   e   a   d      the calls of lips yet mute.

And you,

could you have played a nocturne
with just a drainpipe for a flute?