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Dull Shade of Blue
It was if the sky had bled from our buildings in puffing
streamers made from the whites of our eyes.
I could look up without fear of the sun's blindness or
the callous way it scolded those who dare embrace
beneath its rays for too long. There was no
tangible end to anything in sight. No light refracted,
taken - stirred or used. The day, infinite in shade,
would never give quarter to evening, or night,
and would dwell like a proud specter, robbing
us of our sleep. Because even without heat,
the moon was still but a glimmer in
a stratosphere made an eternal, mad,
dull shade of blue.
