Who said the color of sorrow is black?
        It has no color that can be seen.
        It is the hue of harlots' voices
        calling polyglot obscenities
        from corroded balconies
        while they still clutch Liebestraum
        to their empty dugs.
        It is buds that never bloom to any cast.
        It is shifting maps to love
        drafted on colorless swift waters.
        It has the spectral complexion
        of antique skulls whose grief
        is mistaken for a grin.
        Ah, sorrow is an invisible
        kaleidescope of radiation
        flashing on blinded beholders
        and whirling to silent music
        like a carousel gone mute and mad.

        March 21, 1971