To put the blue square onto your pink tongue

just to let it seep into the white spots

that collect flavors and notes never sung,

that stay themselves in the palatal slots:

While the uvula begs for fresh plucking

and picks up vibrations in just accord,

the voicebox limps though a shattered ceiling

and opens its palms on the cutting cord:

I mean, discord, when chords are malignant,

and witnesses swell and project fury

onto the patterns  figured in pigment—

hands backtracking  like snow in a flurry:

Veterans act as if they have no skills

to act upon their eyes when blindness kills.

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