All round me

the spinning windmill

and distant bread

and long haired boys

and curling irons

and powder and gauze

and tipping hats

and stealing tips

and hard ones

and alarm dogs

and drunken footprints

and rusted tools

and the sweet grass that grows in the tracks along the railroad to fill the misty air with a dream of the seaside.



If you look up you might miss it all

and only see the grey-blue calling

of the sky as it wanders

behind coolly removed clouds

above the vitality of the grass.



Seagulls mock our worldly troubles,

balancing on the border between chaos

and that certain irreplaceable harmony

that careens above innocently cresting waves.

I can taste it on my tongue

and it tastes like blue.



But when we leave the seashore

and the shells beneath our feet,

and all around whirls the dirt infested

knot in the pit of my stomach.

and the yelling

and the screaming

and the whining

and the crying,

I look into your eyes

and I can taste the blue there too.

The sweet grass serenity

of your lashes

as they lean in close,

and your skin

so innocently cresting.

Your hands touch me

with feathers along your fingertips,

leaving irony at the doorstep,

and I see you there,

standing blue along the train tracks,

a glass shard of harmony among the distracted discontinuity.

and I wish I could love you.