Will it never be possible
to separate you from your greyness?
Must you be always sinking backward
into your grey-brown landscapes—and
⁠trees
always in the distance, always against
a grey sky?
⁠Must I be always
moving counter to you? Is there no
⁠place
where we can be at peace together
and the motion of our drawing apart
be altogether taken up?
⁠I see myself
standing upon your shoulders touching

a grey, broken sky—
but you, weighted down with me,
yet gripping my ankles,—move
⁠laboriously on,
where it is level and undisturbed by
⁠colors.