Saturday, July 14, 2012

bluer than I am

I'm trying to figure out what to do with this poem. It started out (and still is) a Quotilla, based on a Bill Withers tune. But it isn't quite working, I'm going to sit on it for a few, but may need to make it a B-Bop Solo


Maybe because of
the soon sunlight, the
lateness of that last moon
of its lantern's smile
the wild light
hour joy lucent
makes (or could've made)
me almost
seem aquamarine
bluer than a cloudless noon
than an inner flame
I would burn like banished books
am yet not withered

Maybe a unicorn
the gray lair left
lateness of fences
of final leaps
the sweet and sour
hour of wrecking
makes melancholy rise
me a solitary eye
seem double visioned
bluer almost
than cyanese twins
I burn like a blueberry candle
am not quite pooled wax

Maybe maple syrup
the amber sorrow
lateness of the sap
of what drips, drains
the mouth of
hour not quite kiss
makes Bill bemoan
me like Mary, you
seem(ed) almost mine
bluer even
than green eggs, cracked
I now

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon).
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