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Jun 2020
I like to imagine the sky above me, a canvas,
floating in the sea of the sylphs, and I,
a paintbrush, white and orange on blue, and green
when I steal from the fields and farms of unsuspecting families,
and red, too, like the dirt under unsuspecting families,

β€”like on the hill to the pond when I first met you,
a blank canvas colored the colors of the rainbow, like
your voice, your eyes, your dress of feathers, flowing,
a crayon of light on the asphalt of life,
dyeing, dying, the color of Orion's bow-hand
as he slings your legs, one meat crayon after another,
one color after another, and finally you, my most beautiful,

β€”and as you looked toward me with eyes of dusk,
I looked across from my triangular wings of summer,
and saw that the night sky is black,
just as the asphalt is but a grave for crayons of the rainbow
because too many humans are artists.
Yang Yan
Written by
Yang Yan  Utah
(Utah)   
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