Red, the color of roses
beneath faded blue,
the colorof a german boy's eyes
around the white organs
of a novel I wrote when
I had nothing to say;
a dirty street sign with
the word
"run" spray painted
by some ruffian over a command
STOP
is my confusion common?and we
run as if we could
ever catch
"ourselves"in colors or words or
symbols. It is no mistake,
we are
moving through even as
the book is closed, even as
our best stories dissolve
into
black and grey. 
in front of your silent notes
Guido
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