Poem 24

Vermillions and cobalts dive over rectangles
       behind the screen
into a pot-blanket of ivory black.

The horizon careens amid poles
       affixed to bright yellows,
and now the sky's height is turquoise.

Few roving reds scroll through
       tracing lines through dark umber
rectangles as they sprout with leaves.

But behind curtains, this I've seen
       every night. Seen all the blacks,
the reds, and tinged titanium whites,

but there is no canvas,
and soon there'll be morning and again night.