The Color of Rachmanus

[michaelboy]

Complacency spreads into horizons and sinks like missing suns in sated souls satisfactory to all good rules of comfort
for they are good and equally lonely

And here I want to spread apple butter
from a forgotten jar my mom had at home,
squish white bread into perfect little cubes
and curl my toes on warm concrete curbs
turning me the purple of fake-grape popsicles

and then,

I could see the sun turning all orange
so perfectly round and thrilling
(setting here and spreading quietly)