I strip the jars of shelf-destruction
Of their labels:
Bare they stand in line, awaiting
In full silence,
Prepared for whatever fate
Is awaiting them.
I paint the colours on your forehead
To add more
Of that which is already there,
Not for change,
While you protest against the shades,
Not the principle.
Whatever principle lies beyond
The very curtain:
After all the jars have been stripped
Of artificial flavour,
You will be everything left for me
To still desire.
[Note: No, ‘shelf-destruction’ is not a typographical error.]