I still think of you. How the heart
is an organ with capability to make
the whole body sad. My sad fingers
paint portrait of faceless blue ending
upon the blue of skies. Mood I say. No
sounds wander through them. Next
finger ends choose the yellow of
sunshafts to give distraction a loose
purpose. How it reaches no certainty
like a comma or still life of yellow
autumn leaf between pages. Every
sundown is no more than a home
coming and no less than a hunt
where I am already stabbed. What
is obedience of a body for, opts stay
ringed by a hurting memory. Now
feet and hands numb. Ears husband
a blossom of quick un-sateen songs.
What is longing but a gathering
crazy for something that on pulling
close, turns out to be a dream. How
can I be promised, the constellation
of dark I grease my body shall ferment
a summer. Some blues. Some yellows.
And how they complement each
other like the bluebird on the white
oak. Someone told it is a sickness
in the guise of beauty. Secretly I
zone out for a while to act joy.
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