Poets

Under the yonder, I searched for my name in a blue book. The pages were doors without knobs or keyholes, yet, because blue comforts the eyes, the tome opened up to me. Suddenly I had a taste for blue; it depicted the impossible.

The mailman sent piecemeal a rare donkey to the city of waters; to the city of waters a rare donkey was sent, swaddled in blueprint.

Perfect stitches suture the glass, & if patient enough watch them disappear. Like the dead dog in the middle of the road, the invisible dog that an ice cream truck hit & the rest of us