In which I publish a poem my readership has seen elsewhere for the sake of its being available at this web address

What Color Is It?

If it hits you
(hits without hands like light
and thirst)
and doesn't stick
(does light stick? or thirst?
or knuckles?)
Is it something or
pronoun without antecedent
yawning through history
a blade of grass itching a bare back
or waking crying
or summer's warmth
teasing open the legs
of my first love?
true?
Is it God or True Love?
or a hurricane on Jupiter that's as old as all love?
Is it the future?
The next raindrop to fall
the next tick of a clock on a wall
that will live
longer than I
but hasn't lived at all?

Is the shadow of it itself?
stronger larger softer lower
than knives and fruit and the saddest thing in the world
(nothing is more than anything)
when you stroke my face
I feel it
(something)