Magenta is a Landscape
Cymelle Leah Edwards
Some hollow way across a reservoir,
sinking into alleys unobserved,
too small and skinny to fit into,
the lost sparks of a firework swirl and
a homeless man tries to bum a light
from the sky.
I close my eyes after looking
for too long and my thoughts
double over and curl like a ribbon,
loosely trailing memories tainted by
a shallow hue.
The trees are filled with smoke
and lather, a swarm of novas dancing
among the leaves, their tips a show
of twinkling stars to eyes
watching from the milky way,
and the land is steeping as a kettle
of neglected cactus blossom, queer
and brewed to its astringent fill,
my view is sustained by a single flicker
of magenta as it traces the shape of
a fiery scene and tries to make sense
of its light.
