plays from the radio,
and my soul still picks daintily.
Is it afraid of getting fat?
So much that it usually eats
it has cut from its pallet.
Friends have been left in the cabinets,
community life in the
Color is calm,
though my soul still sneaks scoops
of pulsating shades at midnight.
What soul does not like a bit of electric blue
or Kelly Green
before running away with the dreams?
Perhaps my dreams,
shrinking beneath all my scrutiny,
cannot bear away
a more voluminous soul.