Blue Sky, Part I

They want a poem

about fingertips

dipped in sugar,

how they reek

of blue sky,

even while jazz

muddies up

the corner.

 

Where scrawls

of Tobago

in tobacco chips,

calling brown from

way back, re-encrusts

the concrete

like Oklahoma

dustbowl.

 

Before we worshipped

the sun, we worshipped

dirt. All that was above us,

brought us fire.

 

But sometimes

just the pale drought

of blue sky.

Knuckles1_670

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