It’s an orange day
rage or warmth
could go either way

and that indigo
behind my eyes
is waiting to see what’s next

waiting to change
or remain the same
in the face of ambiguous blaze

there are people
(so I’m told)
who can steady themselves

with little effort
naming their colors
as they desire

such choice is a deity
I fear I’ll never be able
to worship

without a wet offering
on sun-hot stones reddening
then drying to brown

rust across the surface
of a mundane altar —
all I have to go on is that

the way I play on an orange day
leads me by the eyes
toward night or dawn

and I don’t ever know
what I’ll see because
I don’t know whether I’ll end there