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
whom I am looking at – that brush of shadow
in your eyes and face – inveterate elusive

specked-with-sun-gold linearity which finds

some parity in cherubim, but more 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, an art
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.

.