or blinding beams of sunrise when walking at dawn.
Sometimes it’s the once red fade of thin lips gone blue.
Stare at it. Watch it become God on Judgment Day,
Satan taking names at baby’s First Communion.
Squint now for focus. See it blur into concrete
gray as the hair beneath a dye so black it’s blue.
You wash its ashen feet with tears and perfumed oil.
Its room fills with bric-a-brac and the aroma
Brylcreem and aftershave, sheets needing cleansed.