Poetry and Poetics
Reds and browns now overpower the fleshy grays,
leaving discernible traces only on the bare path
meandering uphill from the rust-colored street.
Sky blue exists only in leafy underpinning
or ghostly shadows dissolved into the palette.
The festival landscape now slopes left to right
instead of a bandstand, or perhaps not playing,
merely holding muted instruments to their lips
to draw attention from their toad-like faces.
Trees shading their audience, already thin,
are further dwarfed into little more than sprigs
by such a stiff perfunctory performance.
One onlooker lies stretched on the ground
as if dead from it, or as if feeling no tension
from the music, carries on a heated argument
with a sky still angry over losing its color.
© by Thomas Reynolds
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