Ask yourself about the matchless blue of daytime sky
as if you were the first
I’ve felt at times that everything needs
a corrective breath
just so all of us
can understand again.
At the end of an event
one starlit night, a rare voice night,
the walls a Wedgwood blue—
the artist offered everyone
a gift, a t-shirt stamped we’ve got to find a way
with a child’s potato prints.
I’d been noticing a power outlet
on the baseboard, underneath shelves
professionally lit, where after hours I might sneak back
to put my head to hardwood floor and plug right in,
a homecoming no one would know about but me—
(how much sense it made, how unending then)
the always unencumbered light
bringing out the paint’s traditional shade, not made but
given, like hydrangeas, bluets, jays, desperate
wolves blue around the edges, as the ailing artist looked
when his friends had gone to medics
begging for drugs to keep him steady,
because although he could be monstrous
his work was of the finest thread,
how the next time my son asks where do we come from?
I might be taken by astonished shoulders
to give a transforming answer,
how sometimes we ignore the furrowed morning glories,
drained blue in complete exalting.