Color Blind

I can’t remember when but

the world was drained of color.

Incrementally, I morphed into a

frog, my brain the pot: waterlogged

and set over the stove to boil or

burn, too subtle to be prevented.

Just a small antenna my only door,

an entire world unsaturated.

Maybe it’s always been this way

but no matter how many prisms

or optical calculations I can never

see how light refracts in another

retina or change the way that now

A walk down the street is

wading through quicksand and

you avoid lying down because

you may never get back up,

too exhausted to fight gravity.

You notice yourself more often

staring at the blank beige wall,

the least visually abrasive one

melting into an achromatic pool

suspended, time stands still.

But I remember when everything

was vivid: hosing down scorching

city pavement condensed a warm

grey perfume, summer a kaleidoscope

of greens, yellow tickled my tongue.

Trees combusted burnt orange to falling

ash, plum juice thick as blood dribbled

down my chin, my heart bulbous and

iridescent as the full moon.

I know I can get myself back,

And so, even in slow-motion, I keep walking

My eyes are color blind but I refuse to close them.