Monday, May 10, 2010



On the cusp of this hill 
where pieces of blue-eyed grass 
fall from heaven and no matter how 
I try to approach that epicenter 
of blue verging on violet, 
that elusive crest of blue 
moves to the next rise, 
and the next, like a skittish rainbow 
elusive to the end, like my life.

Who will even read this? 
I have long since lost faith.
I have no evidence.
It has eluded me 
like those thick concentrations 
of flowers on distant hillsides, 
painting bright idyllic pictures, 
and bucolic landscapes, 
but just under the lens.
They are not stars.
Still, I marvel when I find 
a mutant strain of blue-eyed grass 
devoid of color, quite like the stars, 
or snow and I think 
maybe it was all worth it after all. 
A patch of blue 
in the field of consciousness. 
And blue equals luck: 
it wards off the evil eye,
it wards off death 
and mishap.

May 10, 2010

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