Does anyone still paint by numbers? I once made a fine pair
of canvases––birch trees on a stream rippled by dabs of white.
I liked the oils sealed in tiny jars arranged per the spectrum
like my parents’ Reader’s Digest Condensed Books lined up
on our bookcase—six titles stamped in gold on every volume,
four volumes per year, each year bound in a different color.
Today we’re out of whack, and a supermoon hangs above us.
In the Autonomous Republic of Tatarstan, it seems so close
the Tatars tap its Shocking Pink surface to see if it’s real.
When the supermoon sets, the sky turns Midnight Blue.
For my own protection, I’ve colored my brain with a field
of Crayola flowers—Periwinkle, Cornflower, Goldenrod,
Wisteria, Dandelion, Carnation. If the earth stops spinning,
I plan to tip over backwards into their glorious profusion.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 3.
Don Hogle’s poetry has appeared in Apalachee Review, Atlanta Review, Carolina Quarterly, Chautauqua, Cutthroat, Naugatuck River Review, and Penn Review among others. He was a finalist for the 2023 Tucson Festival of Books Literary Awards. His debut chapbook, Madagascar, was published in 2020 by Sevens Kitchens Press. He lives in Manhattan. www.donhoglepoet.com
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