I’d unsee the patterns if I could, scout.
I’d crumple them up into origami trash, the rubbish 
rubbish rubbish. 

It’s like loving and caring for a dead-end,
being precious with an outline, henna’d
hypotheses itching after days without sun;
I forget how to swim and cannot drown.
Floating, eyes closed, I hear it.
Tree falls, I know it, I believe it;
rubbish righteous girl.

Draw 2, draw 4, change the color to clear, 
the thing that I fear:

that I am patterned transparent, and that there is no there there here

(But you see), I fear that when I hear 
there is no there there here,
to me it is clear that a meaningful metaphor 
PROMPTLY appears:

but what if orange is just
the color orange? and not
the sound of myself