A short pause and a spoon in hand-
to meld the mix within a pail,
a mix of blood, water, and sand.
With spoon and wry, a swirl and swirl,
in, out, and between. Would I twirl
to bury, blur, the mix within?

And so slowly the spoon subdues
those shades and stains confused within,
a speckled yellow withering
in magenta - nontransparent.
Would that mend the tempers that pent,
marrying, uniting the hues?

I stood once within a closet.
Or so I felt - that space within
that pail, that mix, that spoon that stirs
and stirs to kindle - my cold skin
so ever gently in ripples,
and in wrinkles - intangible.
 
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