Haphazardly, Her Blue n. 1

Listen, if you keep going in all hell blazing,

she might get mad, the moon slowly ambling

through the sky. So, my soul, hide fast in the attic,

safe from stares and lust.

Pretend you are colour- blind; don’t look

at the light hitting trees. And branches,

even if white and cold, are goading

words, pencils, markers to stand up to light.

Even if no one looks at the lonely white

on the branches, everything else gone lost–

even snow, our winter relentless lender–

when the night was pleading for more light,

sick and tired as she was of her time.

And you, Nature, get lost.

Stop throwing limbs to the souls who grab them

as they have been starving for too long.

Sure, don’t tell me. Such a tricky matter:

what roads to walk along? Maybe the climax

born from a slant vertical light that’s striking your eyes

and tying up thoughts and creatures in the dead of night.

More power to her if she warps a crippled first womb

where water or stone beds are never enough.

But why are you giving ammo

to a moon already armed with words,

who moves from fear to fear

all the while hounding you with questions or doubts?

The rival’s going to crumble you, my light,

too craven to fight life or grass.

And no, no woods for you where to hurl

your words to the wolves.

Just books, and a green, sour smell

that stays with you all night long–

is that all? Yes, and her wish

of some icy blue sideways-

just for a starter.