Palette

Possibly you're untouchable,
possibly you're a ball of light
untouchable in the fog.

I don't know how it works.

Through the mystic wrappings
of nature's balmy breath
everything is a delicious mystery.

The long stare of the street-light
bathing leaves in white,
the cold cough of pigeons
rifling through the silence.

Possibly you're cooing, somewhere.

Men sleeping beneath elms
of autumn open up like clams,

and these harbor-kissed envelopes,
nestled like eggs in a metal nest,
are all headed west for you.
Expect lots of ochre, mandarin,
possibly a splash of wheat.
For myself I keep only the golden.