the red glow, gentle, not as vertiginous as the air,
is saved only by its ethereal nature
from being swept up into the churning night.

it is this same nature that condemns it to
suffuse into the blooming blue lambency-
which is now green. and now peach.

even feigning surprise becomes impossible
in this place of transmutation
when examined by the soul

those with physical forms are not spared either
but some are more mutable than others:

peach juice, for example, ripens with glycerol, and relinquishes
its color when it diffuses into wine
which holds its color, no matter the light
and will seep through fabric, when conditions are right
like every other form of nectar here

so be free of it, drop it all on the ground
making little mounds of cloth, little
mole-hills in the dark

which blend less, but
black-and-white houndstooth
perfectly matches a brown
Birkenstock (or bag) in our own
personal heaven.