The Brooklyn Rail

A list of blue things
which cut me in a good way
slice my flesh so tender and exact
like a razor blade dragged lightly
across a summer peach, juice not
spilling but somehow bound to itself
ready to spill if sucked or kissed
back to the list
I dare not start
because the words when paired
twist me white, knuckle-bare,
on the verge of cracking
like dawn, yes I
a vampire who sleeps all day
doped by daylight, drowsy be I
on the blue train to somewhere southern
where this list of blue things
only exists as a temporary fix
on a certain corner
where doves gather
and mutter to themselves
like pigeons, I always wondered
what’s the difference

I am a silent spy
perhaps that spider, long-legged
pretending to pray in the corner
waiting for the winter fly to think
of going somewhere
I am that peeping tom
breathing steam on your window
while you exchange bullets
with your soulmate
hostile words that do not exit
I was there too when you prayed to
Christ only because you thought
you were dying, I was spying, I was
the light that gave shadow to the
scene, I will be there even after
you cease to be.