The promise of creativity
flows like rain pebbling
the roof of the study
where your untidy poems lay.
A glance backward
sweeps the world:
as rotund as an orange,
as blue as the books
we pack in refrigerated boxes.
A deep cyan, dark as night,
settles over the city. Indigo
streets, limned avenues.
Dreams encased in dreams.
Waters wash over me, a placid
azure stitched with strands
of maroon and gray. I marvel
at them in autumn on the streets
of Scotland, blood-red moon
ascending over Edinburgh’s castle.
Black, black sky, the fingerprints
of God pressed onto burnt-out suns.
Novas, nuevas, née mort.
I would tally the containers,
but the abacus is broken.
All numbers equal nine.
Aquamarine brings green
to bear on the equation.
Salt seeps through the hollows
of walls, the room interrogates
itself in pools of seaweed, soft-
shelled crabs, angular gulls. You
know the ocean’s rhyme, but
the meter is skewed, the skewer
heavy with charbroiled fish.
No plates, forks. Sea reflects sky
reflects sea reflects a kind of blue,
exonerates my mood. Trumpet trills
shrink the shallow hue of veins.
Blood pumps blue pumps red pumps
life on the cathedral steps. O-negative
breaks positive. I will sweep up the pieces,
paint them steely blue.