There are certain colors
Very popular,
Like a child’s strong reds,
Deep blues, elemental hues,
Strong shades of love, desire.
Sometimes young poets
Get stuck
On the sharp barb of “fuck”.
A strong splash of hate
Can be the tool
To concentrate the feel
Of language into steel.
But, too soon,
The disgrace
Dulls down to commonplace.
It requires more care
To ensnare the muted tones
Of subtlety, of evanescent
Momentary fancies
That float by like puffs of steam
Or thoughts from a recent dream.
Frightened mice
That dart in and away,
And are as difficult to catch
And snare in firm phrases;
Something that amazes
Even the one
Who fixes this phenomenon
Like a captured sun.