I don’t believe in martyrs,
don’t always believe
my eyes. It’s the primary colors.
They endanger me 

with their solid, waiverless
stairs to nowhere better
in black and white. Dirty 

snow or marble, maybe
we did meet once before
this day that tips
toward the melt. What if 

we were lovers? What
does that make us
now that the boisterous 

hues of another summer
have bled away
their urgency? I don’t need
to teach you the difference 

between complementary
and complimentary. “How lovely
you look beside me 

on this wheel—that cochineal becomes you,
even against his brown,” the yellow says
to the red. I might start
to believe in plastic orange 

picks scattered in the street.
And I might pick one up for you
and who you were before.