Little boy. And the color of his sleep. Deep within the day. His horn silent in the shadows of the stacks. Hushed as the hue of evening. That silken wrap around the sky’s broad shoulders. Its fragrance fragile. Like a hydrangea, full as a bosom, baring its bloom in a crystal vase. Unfastening one petal the shade of a last breath. Letting it fall to the floor. And there it is: tinge of gloom. Like the glaze on my son’s contact lens, flicked, accidentally, down the drain. And his hint of lamentation. Then: the pipe wrenched open. The lens lifted out. Unscratched. Ready for the rinse. The tint of vision lost, then found.