Complexity in the Silhouettes of Blue
Veins for blood but not blood proper
unless you're
an octopus and then you're copper you're all hot under
compression of the cold cold sometimes opaque sometimes not
deep sea.
And not certainly not if you're the mother
lode of gold but maybe if you're a lodestone and only if you hold it close
to your nose and open pupil and boldly, depending on
how old your soul is,
your savoring. Or seeing as you need to be sometimes,
you're glossy as a grinding
stone gone idle where a bluebottle or two
buzzes and sometimes when time
is more than idle they light on
the slick glide/slide and make more and more and more and still
more of themselves a highway of phzzzzzing phzzzzzzzzing. Or how
after striking my thumb and there's the instant light and instant not light I'd like
the whole mouth
of someone I love to close over
my throbbing
and allow both cheeks go each to their own
side of the arena of teeth and then once
we're both breathing
that thumb can come to ride its bluest light
inside my hiding
like how in some nights
the blueblack seems its own line of Fugates
or if you're enough
of a non-believer those shadow dolls
all our limbs become and because we want them to last
forever
we cut them
we cut them in
to
silhouettes into dependable paper retro-
spections
from the time before
flashes of light and daguerreotypes were burned
glass before dark and darker rooms
we'd you and me caress the cameo of our very own
sideways
faces and watch the drops of our want
raise the sahde from black to blue-
black which is the color of our hunt
once we are out from under the ageless
wreck the color of our grab and capture
the color of our pressure
the color of our possession but only after
we let go.
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