Blue

Here, your life: a well-
worn sweater, blue, soft,
a cup of tea, endless sky,
something about something
knitting pleasant lines
inside your head, the wind
unravelling tree-heads, petals
falling, bees falling, tears falling,
sometimes, tearing your
heart sometimes, still the
hand holding tight a hand
holding tight, the moon
a name, you call, it
calls, the moon a smile,
holding tight,
mornings coming after nights.

And there, on another
side: a world imploding,
a people imploding,
a time imploding, loud,
then quiet, loud, then
quiet, nothingness has
no beating heart, has no
beat, no heart, screaming
ages into crying ages into
silence, silence stays
young forever, hands grasp
hands that grasp the
air and nights come, nights
go, nights circle until
night is bombed into the night.

In between: a river, a river
that rushes, rushes slowly,
over it a single bridge. Spare
and strong and made of
pewter sun. Curved
and broken and made
of powdery cold. A bridge
that can grow or shrink
over a river than can
grow or shrink over time
that can grow or shrink.
The way it is written,
the way it is sung, the way
it goes away, the way
it goes that way, the
way it goes only one
way, a life can be lived,
a life can begin, a life
can end, without ever
setting foot on it. Without
ever knowing the other side.

Blue sweater with a hole
for the head. Blue sky
through a hole in the
head. Blue head. Blue
sky. Blue river. Blue
bridge, empty, quiet,
spanning blue night and blue night.

#Poetry

From Jan 2024