Yellow never takes itself
too serious. How can it?
Red and blue are always
waiting, preening dark wings.





Keeping its distance,
kisses and tells.

No Casanova,
in time it plays

for keeps—testing
the mettle
of passion's valor,

then prays monk-like
that love
admit no other.





Yellow finds all rebellion meaningless.
Neither French, Russian, nor American.
It finds absoluteness, absolution,
absolutism in commission and omission
of all things considered. It prefers to exist
without qualification, to be taken as is.





Yellow is just—
one model in the catalog,
one fish in a school,
one word in the Oxford,
one weapon in an arsenal,
one lark in an exaltation,
one star in the galaxy,
one instrument in the orchestra,
one soldier in a war,
one tombstone in a grave,
one diamond in the rough,
one singer in a chorus,
one solo in the opera,
one note in a a Bach,
one actor in the movie,
one cardiologist in a flutter,
one violinist in a string,
one electrician in an ohm,
one nightwatchman in a pallor,
one barfly in a buzz,
one coloratura in a quaver,
one scholar in a brow,
one crow in a murder,
one leopard in a leap,
one fox in a skulk,
one chicken in a peep,
one hare in a husk,
one hog in a drift,
one finch in a charm,
one lapwing in a deceit,
one marten in a richness,
one toad in a knot,
one stork in a mustering,
one egg in a clutch,
one nightingale in a watch,
one teal in a spring,
one owl in a parliament,
one giraffe in a tower,
one cobbler in a cut,
one summoner in an untruth,
one forester in a stalk,
one line in a pencil,
one window, one room,
one floor in a skyscraper,
one step in Zeno's paradox


Ed Orr