A blue precision

in the thinning colors of that place walls pilled on each other, painted blue
the tree hides all hints of witnessing the wind, nothing
still leaves and the singing of a robin
leaves scattered in the webs of bedroom eave

from a billiard I create and christen yesterday, I hear voices
distraught by their resemblance to a robin’s hunger cry
their music echoes beyond the walls of content, reach the far away ocean of blue
lichen, bicuspid shells, naked masts of dhows, wind,

unclaimed clothes on a beach, a swimmer has drowned
his strange music contained in bubbles, a deaf robin
could it have snuck into my pocket as a watch
that ticking sound its attempt to hide music?

a most intimate thing, the wind blowing just for you,
its revelation in that unwavering blue brooding in your eyes, in a dark room, with
nothing but the leaves sucked dry in the webs.
no silence, no sound, no void, no life around

bound by nothing, not even water when you set sail in the wind
to an unfamiliar coast and a history, all summed up as yesterday
in your eyes fish swim to the surface of the blue

along the shoreline of nothing blue precision cuts
I write a letter, my lips a wax seal, steal to yesterday
when your eyelids lifted the kite in the wind, no beginning
just eyelashes with each hair a different color.


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