Carthusians scrape, bring forth their fruits, snap them from Creator's bed. Brown, and brown, and brown again scowls at my toes, looks away from watered colors dazzling on fine silk. I am blues and wines...and purples. He is grass and earth, cowslips and cowls. Ah! monk, that our clothes were away, for then we are both the high-born of God... and our colors blend to kiss the night.
© 1987 Tracy McCulloch
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