"Oh, how we love the glow of holy gold!"
They curled, cavorting in the evening sun .
"Oh, but centuries have passed since the rage
for haloes." "Yes, they' re out of fashion now."

"The angels have departed, and auras
may now be had and read in many hues."
"Some see the shine on the heads of others,
others read luminations in themselves."

"Yes, now we have the hues of bliss and wit,
and awkwardness and intuition, yes . . . "
I saw a violet sign that shone and hissed;
it gleamed like neon in the dropping dusk.
I had wished for a tender poets' blue,
but here was the hue of enlightenment.
The sign scrolled out NARAN, my spirit name.
"Why wish", one turned and hissed, "why wish, why wish?"

It was gentian blue; it was indigo;
it was myrtle or mauve, a rose-blue vein;
the silver blue of oysters on the half;
ink smeared thin across a violet sky.

It was a distillate of Dusk, a sign
that I was seeing and I was seen.
"What's the fashion in hats?" "No har at all."
"Oh, stylists try, but hats just don't come back!"

"And those who like to read luminations
do so on bare or bald or hatted heads."
"Mad as hatters, we love the hidden hues!"
"Yes, the seventh sense is also color."