Discus

I grab the world

by its handle

and launch it.

And watch

a palimpsest of colors

somersault

past the horizon of my vision.

Some of the fray is left behind

on the expanse of my hands.

The black of lovers’ pupils

bleeds into the riverbeds of my palms;

emerald mosses

line the bow at my cuticles;

a saffron ether of pollen

dusts the crests of my knuckles;

and unfolding across my fingertips

is the thready blue of infant irises.

Unthinking

I smear my hands down

the front of my smock,

and all that remains of this world

mixes

with the befuddled, brilliant gray

of every world that came

before.