Brief Moral History in Blue
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We began the march with our best brights and bust rights,
safe in the surety of the good bluebook of acclaim, wherein

the sky is a hint of the same everlasting, �uctuating
imprint of a blue fuck and its long impression of night.

Consciousness, town crier in a sleepy sleeping city of tendril
and mongrel and scoundrel, is dreaming of the body

awake and bell-eyed to the least bruise of heaven, when
really awake to lie down in shadow, undo the brief skein.

Asked if I’d do it again, grim darling, I’d say the same thing
(in a shade deeper blue understanding all over) again.