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Blue breeds blue hued shadows—
does this surprise? The wooden chairs are blue,

the table for lovers is blue—the people,
the horses, the houses, all likewise. Or maybe

the blood of irises has permeated your eyes;
it soothes and improves the catastrophes

of the dull day. Blue spiderwort, forget-me-not—
nobody seems to know what they’re called,

so the bluebird babies do somersaults in the sky:
they know the earth is topsy-turvy. The sight

sends us spinning—Oh, you terrible night.
The vase is blue and speckled with the sky,

and not empty. It is a scepter for the majestic posy,
and I offer it to you. The sharp, white magnolias

almost go silver in the flushed moonlight:
our seasonal planet is my very own kite. And I

am the vivid red celosia, a gratified, grinning juvenile,
adjoining you, the virtuous tease.

A bottle of wine for one, the sacred chalice for the deed—
morning glories you’ll be born-again

Oh, please—
turn your grace towards me.