I remember a Color
That comes when Sunlight Bleaches Wood
And that Wood is overcast by the Shadow
Of a Body
Standing

That Color
That holds little Saturation
Is Impossible to Recreate
And for this Reason
I must go Back
To where I once Found
Solace and Dismay
Present in the hands
Of a Milky Palmed Woman
Whos Father was on the Wrong Side
Of the Cold War.

Fearing that if I do not
I will be cast into a Mold
That America holds
As Useful
And that I have Found
Is better known
As Dead.

And Pull the Wood
Along its Weathered Grain
That composes the Back Porch
Of the Second Floor
Of the Only Home
Ive Ever Slept Soundly In.