Palette

Possibly you're untouchable,
possibly you're a ball of light
untouchable in the fog.

I don't know how it works.

Through the mystic wrappings
of nature's balmy breath
everything is a delicious mystery.

The long stare of the street-light
bathing leaves in white,
the cold cough of pigeons
rifling through the silence.

Possibly you're cooing, somewhere.

Men sleeping beneath elms
of autumn open up like clams.

Silver-licked envelopes,
nestled like eggs in a metal nest,
are all set to cross the country.
Expect lots of ochre, mandarin,
possibly a dash of wheat.
For myself I keep only a golden.