all the traffic lights
change the wrong colors.
On a sad day,
there's a purplish tinge
to the white puffs of clover.
On a lucky day, a bad feeling
melts like spun-sugar
in your transparent saliva
instead of getting
kiln-blasted
into the hard gems of fact.
On an ordinary day, you miss
the bees and stamen
consummating their marriage
and making honey
that looks like
dawn light together—
and some dark as amber,
depending on
which weeds proliferate
in that particular mile
of the old carpool lane.
And all of that time,
in the back of your mind,
some part of you longs
for the stasis of heaven—
even though, after living
through all this,
one must admit
that the colorfast hereafter
sounds
like a letdown.
