Aryo Feldman

You are always outside my rectangular borders.
Inside them I am safe.
I am immune to arguments.
This is not because I hide away.
I have no secrets.
I tell you everything you want
And yet I know nothing
And want for nothing.
I do not seek meaning.
I do not ask, “Why?”
But if I did, I would ask, “Why do you change my colours?”

Grey is cold
a thin shadow haunts—dim edges of bodies—drab decay—faded photographs—faded tattoos—faded lives
fester in dingy, dusky corners of dust-
bathe in dripping drops of murky water
a solitary stance—or abandoned absence—it has taken away—a pencil mark scraped off the page

Golden warming
sand tickles cuticular crust
shingle tingles sanded surfaces
mingle with bleached crustacean dust
a field of straw
brushes fingers
dry – drought – desert
the sun comes in
all directions
reaches every cell
penetrates deeply
searing scars