All Too Pink

Derelict as usual,
but with a better grasp of the moment,
a sense of the necessary leads me back
to the machine in the window.
Some tree, some shrub,
chooses this moment, just outside --
a lull in the afternoon's dreary desire to gloom
and gray and drip --
to show me pink pearl blossoms
in the all-too-knowing glance.
Just another baby-pink,
but for this there's a lapse in taste,
a pause -- this time --
and the pink becomes a glowing pastel.

Backed by gray and green and white, the pink prevails:
a meaning for the baby sentiments of the boo-hoo bourgeoisie,"
represented in the pink of a new found power,
represented,
not through the pink of spring and bloom,
not through the burst of the newborn,
not through the sly strength of the robust,
not through the growing, the potential
-- but through power,
and of a power that so knows itself
that, bored, sensing its own irrelevance,
it tempts the limits, it moves,
out of its own power and solidity it moves,
out of the urban gray frame of produce and pollution it moves,
to the very verge of fragility.

A pastel pink
weighing the balance
of flux and efflux:
useless, cultured,
sustained in the looking glass
of a world glorying in limits,
in anesthesia,
in annihilations,
in unknowing uterine births.

"In the pink..."
An edge sustained to reveal power,
an offering.
The security of
giving up
of shitty life
to the aestheticization of pink.
Not the pink of health,
but the pink of power,
induced by helplessness.
A triumph.
A color.
An end.