Posted by in Poetry, Writing

the white white of the walls
twilight of evening
your arms suffused in indigo
glow reflect

and our child’s little teeth
gleaming in the darkness
will each speak laughingly
of Roosevelt’s daughter

then the sheen of that feather
Klein Corvidae
against the green grass
in a pale lunar rouge

and the tips of those two claws
trembling azure
will draw me a villain
painting in red

and the Echeveria
alongside the fountain
plump with their own
Carolina gloom

this and the Oakleaf
somewhere in the garden
its hints of Marjorelle
and Cordovan

and these old words, even,
will remember us always—

a chorus of blue.