Une Ville Bleue

City is nearing the translucent blue

In the starlight of tall-necked halos:

Silhouettes search for the topmost

Edge of the clouds not to be found:

There is more to be clutched at

In the distant half of black

Than is revealed; only the real

Streetlights, up in their high picture,

Are concealed from glass eyes,

Concrete limbs.

A boxed-in evening is blushed blue

With yearning

For the external grace it should possess

To transform away from

Half-colours, seeping out city torrents.

The third component is present:

Bric-a-brac interference of

The parallel above still withstanding,

Careful eyes survey;

Winter’s hands have glazed

That once-clear glass, and as

They open, raw irises show

That burnt fire still blazes:

Une fleur bleue.

With childhood fingers that stretched,

Scoured, sought out the summery

Sky, just like dreams, she lets it forget,

Sliver by without the consequential

Dawn’s attack on the system.

That break in the face

And moments taken without force-

Except through the brushing wind-

Is where the currents flow

Into each other;

Past to present, midday to midnight

In the gentle hush of the bleeding blue

As it beckons to its beckoning

Cityscape in the cold.

The End

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