Colors, familiar and nameless, and their shades
leave no empty yawn, a strange hole of nothingness
in the factory, its old sooty walls, the grimy machines,
the receptacles, the wastes, and even the cracks in its walls
and the tin-roof sun beams are steaming down through
like smoky fingers, airy and ghostly.
Warm liquid red, alive with nimble steel instruments
busy with the flesh under brooding halogen light
amid the first bloody breaths and the first welcome cry…
and the last liquid red following a stained steel bullet
which shell-loosened yellow sands suck dry black.
Colors have spilled out of the old factory
gushing out of its wall cracks and roof holes
broken door panels and glass window panes,
pushing the colored fingers back out
like colorful porcupine needles softening into
roads, houses, trees, travelers spilling out of
and into houses and buildings, buses, cars, and trains,
and flowing in sunny streets and creeping in black tunnels
like liquid ants, engaged in slow rhythms of love,
or swift movements of hate, and nameless stirs
with no apparent meanings but just life.