We’ll Take the Riddle, So Long as It Remains Unanswered
Sometimes the blue is so blue it is every shade of blue at once. The
first sound, the back & forth of the blue water. A pair of scissors is
blue as is the hem of the blue hand that holds them. The first urge, to
snip the blue heron from a swath of nocturnal shoreline. Discernment
risks injury, so we sleep inside the blueish swirls of our own blueish
bodies, mistake the brute flap of a wing for touch, suffering for the
brief amnesia of stars. Distant or beloved, a man’s cigar smoke is blue,
a vast graffiti of legs stretched into the blue of a borrowed beach chaise,
the marooned bones fooled into a comfortable shipwreck, the lungs
into ether or sea. A ghost can whet the blade & sit inside the blue
of a palm without our knowing. What comes is the world before it’d
begun, before the blue was anything other than blue.



