The Blue
THE BLUE a wanderer’s bread flung about the valley and milk was the soul that couldn’t stretch over dusk even the bluebird had the sun pocketed like a gun against its breast somedays we’d give anything to rid ourselves of the blue the anvil of night the hammer of morning god, make the dead dance our legs rise instead for a star to tickle a single foot the transmissions, the cybernetics of the firmament always failing the present we’re too baked into this clay and these dreams wolf-wanderers yes, not enough: the blue we wouldn’t let it through in its absence a clown slid a corpse into its bed felt the lava at its knees and began its prayer