Here we are again, the eye skimming along the grid
of what it’s given, then doing its calculus—
this overcast morning, lingering over
the lightfast, loving what’s stable;
but also what shimmers into a range
of forms. Though damp and rain
have drained the green out of the trees,
a scrape of bark yields copper undertones,
or ultramarine— extracted from stones once
more expensive than vermilion or even gold,
the blue of lapis lazuli’s a sheen
that royals what it’s smeared upon.
Sometimes I want to hold even a fleck of it
in the back of my throat: oh little pebble I
might lick for luck, tasting of sulphates or
blood, tumbled smooth by rough-toothed days.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.