Monday’s Apples

Michael Paul Ladanyi

 
~For K~
 
When words are colors, colors leaf
tin yellow bricking sounds,
sometimes I cannot hear you clearly, Jean.
Limed asphalt lights Monday’s
apples on fire; and we have walked
everywhere to come to this place.
 
People are strange, Morrison no more
or less than brown-legged throngs
come to purchase small red moons,
peer through milky glass at the king of lizards.
 
This sky has been slapped purple,
crayon voodoo scribbled colors and sounds,
100 storms waiting turns through
vapor-chatter, electric bird landscapes.