R Nemo HIll


I long to fade from action

into stupefaction,

slipping through the cracks

that restless fullness lacks.

I can no longer choose

between primary hues.

I crave complete collapse

into pastel gaps.

In torn mint and mallows,

by terracotta shallows,

where the gnat’s lavender eye

kindles heat in a sigh;

on a vanishing palette, where black

is blind, and white is mute—

lay me on my back,

in brown mud and gray suit.