By CJ Sommerfeld, Staff Writer
the ether is asking for your favoured shade
youâve lulled to a place where
Freudâs mind cannot proffer
so tired that the usual excitement
youâd feel in a new city, idles
blurs with the previous
emotion, Pollock
belonging to the circumplexâs left side
but I need you to tell me
your favourite colourÂ
the lattice is not as astute
to discern: itâs us
I need you to climb to sentience
long enough
to tell me a hue different than
what you told me
in your studio a few years back
we tried
to eradicate the muss
in Vic, rough and crude
in Frankfurt, robust
Toronto: unjust
its border trussed
only your favorite colour
will grant us sustenance
in Mexico City
to readjust
to a contrafactum of places
here the morning sun wonât wake
you; there isnât a window
in all these four walls
your eyes expect daybreak
in Barcelona
thatâs been replaced with Â
the whines that smother
the halls, creeping in between the
cracked paint
the door that doesnât close all the way
its register not high enough to wake you
to a state to tell me
your treasured tinge  Â
the brothel gatekeeper down stone stairs
gave us an excuse, duller
hostile encounter, her
the ether is asking for your colour
