A hued farther, thought of in greyscale by JKD

After "In a Pond" by Sean S & various paintings at the Pompidou Center.

Yellow eyeless as a fawn in the Crimea she says bugles, or bungles at gunpoint he grounded the black lens down into stardust, pinches of it, stinging us blind. Would it be then, wonderful to touch the muck, the insectless dream inching towards us in the hungover mountain glen? These severe glances, slivers as glacial as that swing, a robed languorous afternoon you read from one chaise to another, coffee to cocktail, all weekend, weekends, summer. Elegant as promenaders in angular hats, boas, constricted in their chatter, this space as wide as the arm’s touch is close. Whisper now on the bare seascape, omniscient green of, and tell me, what will it be then, or next, or hours, or ours.