I once had half its colour and twice the metaphor, prism hinting at a truth trapped in a moth. Just tell me what it really is, a curved line in a purple petal, blue dot in a ceramic vase. Heliophilic atom straining to catch a delicate whiff of light and space. Have you pricked yet a hole small enough to spot the miracle, the azaleas on the ground, orchids on your tabletop, blood on my fingertips? Did you witness both their birth and death day? Hope drips from my lips contoured to separate flesh from glamour and the fish swallows me whole, spits me out into a glittering black pond as wide as the sky feels in the first week of June before summer gets us all and I play the waffle cone and gasoline over until my brain forgets its coordinates and a cloud lands in my lap. There is a season and you are already in it, purpling. How pretty it all is, how any of it is, in the right light under the right eyes.