Donna De Rosa

Sleep brings a visage of light.

My very own wrong.

I wonder at this pale fraction - Eyes a translucent pink like the torn flesh of cherry fruit. Wearing vermilion and turquoise stone - Look passively upon your ribbon wrapped boxes flecked with gold - about to cry? Do blood tears fall from such ivory? Is it Plasma? Plastic - Pure atmosphere? I see a viscous powdery glare - with hair inhabited by some lonely zephyr. I see the breath through venous crossways - I see cells within living fabric - If I toss yellow and blue into that wind - Would you be as a canary against a summer sky? - The waif stands in the water with a birthday balloon - white - dressed in paper - If I colored you in would you burst with seeds and ripeness? Would you be supernatural?

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hidden like pearls