The granules making faces in the eyespots,
promising the faith of wearing azure,
cherry clouds are blurs of something special;
magnetized and polarized by closure.

Neon at the exit of a tunnel
isn’t a substantial form of light;
the red of any contrast disappearing
as reflux with an alkali applied.

Maroon at the corner of the glances
waiting for another neon sign
to run into those phosphorescent arrows
pointing at a future place and time.