spray-paint

it's a canister
of color,
a silo
of semaphore.
the neon
that tells
the electrician
where not
to dig.
or else
it's a jacket
for rust
and the dust
left by drought
because you thought
the patio table
could use
a new wig.
put together
this jigsaw:
you with ozone
and aerosol,
beneath the parasol
of a tree,
flecking infinite seeds
of a spring fern
or ripe fig.
a frog
who doesn't know
any better
might think
you were
strange weather—
a god, a rainbow—
or something
equally big.

 
 B.J. Best

B.J. Best

B.J. Best is the author of three books and four chapbooks of poetry, most recently Yes (Parallel Press, 2014) and But Our Princess Is in Another Castle (Rose Metal Press, 2013).