The True Hue

There are no wilder shores than those which cannot be reached.

Take this slate, with its veins of narcissus so cool to an infected cut.

Over time that white fades until deep green is everything which ever allayed fever.

So you too became such an open sea, & to chart it, a hurricane's eye

was my best guess.

Side by side, flesh translated the language after much wrestling & invention of new tongues.

To bathe in that was to know a waterfall's moss slime & take care 

upon those stones hidden under while dipping limbs, tilting back heads.

Later even such comforts vanished,

the slippery footholds turning to depths for the treading with no bottom to touch.

We knew that in certainty without compass or the loneliness of denied genius.

We knew that by stars, the sky's sirens, singing only of more inaccessible heights

in a broth blackened planetary. 

At last the moon came, a blue one, its fullness of rays making the waves into a Catalpa,

each crest, a limb.

Climb up, cried our ancestors, voices, all leaves, & the bark, amniotic.

The brilliance obeyed us then with a timeless view the color of god

blind eyes describe.