Blue light on dark rivers, 
blue notes floating in veils of wind          
down chasms of blue canyons
whose denouement issues
into fields of tiny bluets limning the dawn.

I covet illusions:
my diaspora of bluish stars,
periwinkle glinting wet the eye,
and two sapphires shy recessed in the iris.
I see a child’s face face the world
like aqua light borne in water
blinking awake.

What theatre of stars doesn’t expire?   
I stand in the night heat
of high summer, cherish the starlight
imparted with far-flung dreams,                  
learning to lose
the trajectories, the tendrils of constellations
I could always locate out of love
re-arranging their crooked conversation
behind the mystery of roofs.
Eventually they rise out of the fringe of trees,         
and drape garlands in the pond           
around a wading moon

whose sheath I float through tethered to my madness. 

Where are you now?

Still I am blue for lack of you,
and forgiveness is a low blue flame.


Photo by Max Kleinen on Unsplash