So
out of the bud
in the many greens
a dove is released
into night.
But that’s not all.
Every shadow
may be a still image
repeated, the surface
of a child’s motion
glad under water,
And
Blackness two plums
colliding in a sound-proof room
And
a blue seep on a wall,
in any country with walls,
may be last year’s
violets or the furious
purple under
the clouds
before cloud burst.
Moreover,
the small lights
we see in the yard
making the silentest
blue strings
may be space
folding, drawing
two light bulbs,
one in China, one Mexico,
to touch. For their
brief time together
they become firefly,
intertwingled and brief.
We see blue bits falling
and take them for bluejays
at the feeders,
lost balloons, the sound
of weeping
in another room.
Laughter on river boats.
Therefore,
that one lilly
at sunset is the afterimage
of a dove, or a wave,
long gone into tomorrow.
