Six Colors

Green for what you want; green for the ballroom
and the salt on the kitchen stairs. Green
for the jukebox, for onions and telephones
and the sand that fills up the shells.

Red for the dog's bark, for the roots
of rhubarb, for the angel that watches
over the bowling alley. Red for the general
and his rockets falling into the sea.

Blue for the hermit in his cave
with the moon in a bowl; blue
for the horse in a dream, for the gravestone
of ants, the photo of grandmother as a child.

Yellow for binoculars and shouting, yellow
for the opera that begins with a wine bottle
opened in an attic, yellow for lost money
and the ambassador thrown out a window.

White for papers sleeping in filing cabinets, and for tour buses
driven over hunting grounds; white for the faucet
that coughs blood, and the dice
that do not know victory or defeat.

Black for the inside of the box when
it is closed. Black for the parachute
that might open, for the ice on which
the day is built. Black for the shovels the elk hear

as they move deeper, like music, into the mountains.