Blue floats and hovers <br />it never comes to rest <br />its scent is distant bonfires <br />its touch moth-breath <br /> <br />Blue is man-child <br />with spiritual eyes <br />a stranger in a room <br />who isn't one <br />soft down on upper lip <br />felt without touch <br /> <br />it is dreaming at night <br />of what is not and cannot be <br />it is gauze-vision <br />half-reality <br /> <br />it is a shaky signature <br />on a typewritten page <br />seen through mist <br /> <br />Blue is pain that is borne alone <br /> <br />it is quena music <br />bone-notes quavering over absent flesh <br />in death worship <br /> <br />yawns are for want of blue <br />and partially for having it <br /> <br />Blue is pigeons <br />and siamese cats <br />and snow shadows <br />it is for ever <br />stretching <br /> <br />it is ten billion spindles <br />weaving blue fabric endlessly <br /> <br />it is the certain <br />uncertainty <br /> <br />(Nov.2004) <br />(Senneville, Québec)<br /><br />Philippa Lane<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blue-3/
