Kind of Blue

Not Delft or
delphinium, not Wedgewood
among the knickknacks, not wide-eyed chicory
evangelizing in the devil strip—

              But way on down in the moonless
              octave below midnight, honey,
              way down where you can't tell cerulean from teal.

Not Mason jars of moonshine, not
waverings of silk, not the long-legged hunger
of a heron or the peacock's
iridescent id—

              But Delilahs of darkness, darling,
              and the muscle of the mind
              giving in.

Not sullen snow slumped
against the garden, not the first instinct of flame,
not small, stoic ponds, or the cold derangement
of a jealous sea—

              But bluer than the lips of Lazarus, baby,
              before Sweet Jesus himself could figure out
              what else in the world to do but weep.

Lynn Powell, “Kind of Blue," from Poetry magazine, 2004. Reprinted with permission from the author.
Source: Poetry
More Poems by Lynn Powell