Your voice, singing, calls up green,
green of the grasses bent
on that beach miles from here.
And, later, that one word spoken
in my ear ever so softly—blue of dusk
or storm clouds low over water.
Never yellow or orange or red, are you,
though I have seen those, too:
in the car horn's blare, wail of saxophone,
screech of hawk. The spectrum, yes, mine,
when I wish for the one sense. Even if blindfolded,
I see the hue,            there, hovering.

And yes, I have tried: I have worked at less
being offered. Forgive me.