The first of them came on a Tuesday, just before sunset, when the quinacridone sunlight was dripping away to the orange glow of streetlamps, their awkward caws echoed in between the walls of the skinny alley like the far off tune of an amateur jazz musician. In small groups, as neon Vs against the pastel sky, the flamingoes were finally returning to Cagliari.
It restrains the dark cherry flavor.
The deep claret filters all conceivable light
And burns its color on the desk.
The desk, not knowing better,
becomes part of its hue,
And stoops before its tint authority.
The lamp asks why the bottle feels powerful,
It says, “I changed the color of this desk”
“Get your own light,” whispered the lamp
And the desk was freed.