Those days of old kindnesses
are not stroked into any recall
by my finest of sable brushes –

not weighted by sweet squeezes
of rollable toothpaste-ish oils –
now it is my turn to sweep colour

inside out – now that other tongues
have given up their generous ways
Take my hand – my copier of colours –

and let if cover your unkind mouth
There are no gilt frames to contain
your cold-hearted complaints

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