Interrogating the Masses
by De Jackson


Everybody knows the color of the sea until
they take a second look and realize there’s

periwinkle in there, and some fuchsia, too
like a painter’s palette spilled loose, liquid

and longing to blur into earth one wanton
wave at a time. Everyone knows the sounds

of night, but hey, listen to the sky when
the breeze bumps just right and the trees

share their leafy gossip of moon and scandal
-ous stars. Everybody’s smelled this rose,

nose digging in deep for a taste of crimson
hope; held the taste of tomorrow on torn

tongue, longed for its fullest sweetness to
wash past teeth, fuse beneath all fear and

lift it, sift it loose. Everybody’s touched these
cold promises, smooth spilled stones that

speak when held, and sting when thrown,
and as everybody knows, break quiet bones.









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