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Modernists will tell you of blue, green, grey, transparent.
I could tell you glas.
Your glas eyes, the glas glas grass of home.
I don’t feel safe with the modernists’ specificity,
their cold-blooded naming of things.
Your eyes are not blue or green or grey,
they are glas; take it as you will, glas.
I am threatened by this need to name, to trap.
Once a thing is green, it is not blue, it has not been blue,
it shall never be blue forever and ever amen.
Please save me.
I want glas, I want to know of blue-green eyes,
or transparent saliva,
of silver-grey-blue flutes and knives,
I want to know of the blue straw glowing green, glas,
the tempering water shining blue in steel, glas,
your eyes, green as blue, glas.
I don’t know how to name, I don’t know what to say,
or how.
Leave me glas, I beg you, leave me the freedom
of unknowing.




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MckayThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
today at 5:47 pm:
This hue sounds beautiful, as the poem is lovely. Congrats on another Editors' Choice. 
 
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