And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them,

Outside my window, the bushes have turned, redder

September’s end 1877,

When I say poor, I mean we drank powdered milk,and our meat slid from the can in jellied squares.I mean our TV always showed black, white, or greyeven though the screen promised technicolor.Inside me, color flourished, each ray a wild band,a length of the spectrum. Bent and separated,different shade

I lingered for hours beneath the gray sideshow canvas,