The colour of the sky is gold:
I am telling you that the colour of the sky
is molten gold. Don’t believe me? I’ll
tell you again that the colour of the sky
is hot wet molten gold, and the grass under
your feet is blistering under
the hot wet molten goldness of it.
I am telling you this to help you,
remember. The colour of the sky
is gold, and Mondays taste of
mother’s milk, and Tuesdays
taste of sorrow. I am telling
you this to help you: you have
the face of someone new here.
Say ah: put out your tongue. You
see? Tuesdays taste of sorrow,
and sorrow tastes like copper.
Today is Tuesday. You are new
here. The colour of the sky is gold.
The grass slices, finely, like
a paring-knife. You are new here.
Today is Tuesday. Your skin prickles.
The colour of the sky is gold.
Tuesday
E.R. would like you to know that Wednesdays taste of boiled eggs and the roughness of burrs in wool.