Not Delft or
delphinium, not Wedgewood
among the knickknacks, not wide-eyed chicory
evangelizing in the devil strip—
But way on down in the moonless
octave below midnight, honey,
way down where you can’t tell cerulean from teal.
Not Mason jars of moonshine, not
waverings of silk, not the long-legged hunger
of a heron or the peacock’s
But Delilahs of darkness, darling,
and the muscle of the mind
Not sullen snow slumped
against the garden, not the first instinct of flame,
not small, stoic ponds, or the cold derangement
of a jealous sea—
But bluer than the lips of Lazarus, baby,
before Sweet Jesus himself could figure out
what else in the world to do but weep.
Moving through the atmospherics of "blue" by the via negativa, Lynn Powell conjures a jazz riff worthy of the master.
SEASON OF THE SECOND THOUGHT
(University of Wisconsin Press, 2017)