I tell them "paint", and they do—
little hands make big, bold lines
in blues and pinks,
and "look I mixed it,
what colour is it?"
So proud of the dishwater brown.

I want to say: "if you mix many
beautiful things, you lose track of them.
They become all muddled, muddy,
like paint water, all of them."
But they just add glitter to the mess
like sparkles of stars and car headlights
in the darkest night,
in the depths of a hopeless sound.