by Mike Zempter
when the mist of moving closer lifts,
it is possible to see
the veins emptying into the basins of the feet.
They are blue, from their darkness.
They are longer than they look.
Like nothing else, they return, without exception,
to the heart that needs them, which, in life,
is the color
of the sun, setting over great distances
of earth and sight. there is a body to support—
and to set over, finally.
A body is the color of flesh.
It is a color of mild intentions,
so far as we know those colors.
Holding the colors of some darkness,
colors of the setting sun,
the body holds the nickel of nothing but dim ocean
over its covered bones,
though we have the problem
of coming close enough to see that.
Mike Zempter has poetry in the upcoming issue of Transpacific. (Fall 1974)