If I engulfed myself to paint

If I engulfed myself to paint

or sculpt the curls that burn between

my ears, I’d have to first unearth

the sounds a canvas blank allows.

I’d have to learn which notes a red

can hold and what, while in the kiln,

the clay keeps rhythm to, or in

which key it flames. I figure if,

instead of shades, the rays which I

assume create the sounds of blue

upon a face could sing, I’d find

an endless orchestra in tune

with what I know it’s like to see

the yellow embers of a symphony.