One loan bird
flies up into a sea of blue
between the Essex house
and that building on the corner.
No clouds hang in his way,
and he glides
through perfect clarity.

It seems so quiet
here at this hight
with the sounds of busyness
buried below
by sky.
I could be anywhere really.

Lying on this bed, alone,
cheek pressed against overly starched sheets,
I am cold.
The sky outsides is not blue in a warm spring way,
but in a way of emptiness,
of infinity,
like the sky over an ocean that stretches
forever and ever into the cool distance of
‘somewhere.’

I think of love
and leaving
the regret that goes with abandoning normalcy
for opportunity,
and I try to coax tears into my eyes
to seal up this sadness,
but none will come.

The blue mascaraed wells
have run dry--
Instead they just stare out
into that blue;
the blue between buildings
where the loan bird flies.

Blue eye
to blue sky
exchanging cool melancholy
in thin wisps
while I sink sleepily into invisible dreams.