Things that are purple

January 27, 2008

The blanket: woolen and folded
and orange from gas fires,
salt lamps and sky lights and paper wrapped bulbs
20 years old and 2 houses gone,
matching a carpet before it was lost,
kept on a bed.

The phone, arrived in the post
like a foil parceled chocolate,
glinting with buttons the colour of cadburys
or cars in the night time, or panels in stories,
unwrapped for 2 weeks,
minted with thumbs

The varnish, glossing up nails
like a stag beetle’s armour,
chipped at the corners but glistening water
or oil poured on puddles, or snow on horizons
or spray painted plastic
that’s melted like glue.

The cover of a book by Margaret Atwood.
A delicate mauve called Bluebeards Egg.
A violent vase, a mug of sex,
the feel of a name,
the edge of a horse,
the darkening edges of sky.


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