At night the colors crawl down off the wall with their shrill contours smeared with excitement and tell us of goldfinches and jujubes. They jabber of controversies of brick and swimming pools monastic as soup. They tell us we are blind and that they are nervous and teetering on rain. We say nothing because we are asleep. We are asleep and do not listen. Green walks around in a dark pine forest and blue says we have a friend in osmosis. A red rose gathers the lips of representation and makes a bouquet of syntax and breath. A yellow sun walks across the sky in a black robe fringed with golden beads. A pink blob imagines it is a pig and then explodes into bacon. A gray mist envelopes a hill and a tattered cloud vomits a mountain. Brown mimics the sound of heavy machinery digging the earth. A black elastic belt with a thin white stripe emerges from a theory of light reeking of desire and gunsmoke. The alarm goes off and the colors shatter into metal. Daylight bursts golden over the mountains. Everything becomes inexplicable as space; a knife on the counter, a thought in the throat.