Colorado Because there are no trees nor hope        for trees & light like this        means painting the deck red every year, whorish        until the first snow, then dull blood        then tamed beneath a deck chair & you in it. Because        there are no birds besides        a third-class tourist bus of grackles, the odd consonant of geese,        your view is undisturbed: cardiogram        of rock, rise & backlit pass from God's ring finger. Because        winter is fickle you sleep        on redwood (blizzard, bastard sun, blizzard) & swap out brass        & touch up spots from March        to May & the trees, if there were trees, bulk up        & chitchat, sweat bees        whispering Sisyphus, brush in your hand,        one color        in mind, one color.