By CJ Sommerfeld, Staff Writer
the ether is asking for your favoured shade
you’ve lulled to a place where
Freud’s mind cannot proffer
so tired that the usual excitement
you’d feel in a new city, idles
blurs with the previous
emotion, Pollock
belonging to the circumplex’s left side
but I need you to tell me
your favourite colour
the lattice is not as astute
to discern: it’s 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 won’t wake
you; there isn’t a window
in all these four walls
your eyes expect daybreak
in Barcelona
that’s been replaced with
the whines that smother
the halls, creeping in between the
cracked paint
the door that doesn’t close all the way
its register not high enough to wake you
to a state to tell me
your treasured tinge
the brothel gatekeeper down stone stairs
gave us an excuse, duller
hostile encounter, her
the ether is asking for your colour
