A moonbeamed alley and cat
of Blues, singing to wharf rats
in heartful plenty and lonely

dogs down avenues. Empty
tumblewed streets
in dusted sunflower hues

the parched mouth yearns for release.
A deluge of drops from grey-spot skies
while embers warm a book of Keats.

Tobaccoed leather mists and grandpa
sighs at the crunch of falling bough
a crisp northerly blows scent of pies,

and cawing crow flies on the prow.
Normal colors lack specificity,
So comes the time the blind man vowed:

Can't you see, the colors that can't be?