A Private Blue

Assuming, as I am today disposed to do,
that there’s no reason not to think
whatever we would like to think is true,
I have decided that you trade in an ephemeral

but incontestable exasperating magic which
creates the cloud that you inhabit and accrue
by simply being you: that you in any other
context – Idaho or Timbuktu – would be as

inexpressibly uniquely new as you seem now.
Every day I look and see what seems to be
the recognizably colluding is-and-what-and-how
of you: contours that depict familiar outlines

and announce your various peculiarities
and unmistakable phenomena – no doubt
of whom I’m looking at – that catch of shadow
in that angled face – inveterate elusive

bluish pinkish muscularity which makes
a parody of cherubim, invokes a camaraderie
with poltergeists and demons whose
deft steaming sweet shenanigans will

never be denied: every day I see the slide
into the mystery of how you claim complete
autonomy – dimensionally here in every way –
and yet with some strange inexplicability:

there is a crucial floating thread in you
connected to an answer in your heart – or so
I am assuming, as today I am disposed to do –
which drifts astray into a private blue.



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