This is exactly what I say it is. The cerulean
splits the sky this morning like a wise
man’s hands. I don't know what he has in mind.
The door barricaded with a broom and a chair
against the knob but the blue still gets in. Where it hits
the ground a fern begins to grow, first the thin purple
curlicued stem, skeleton of a lawn ornament,
but as I watch it slowly unwinds, rising slow
an arabesque of lace. The fringe brushes my fingers
turns my knuckles raw but I still don’t know what to do.
I raise my hands but the light produces a crushed rope
of lava. My fingernails are a mess. Wind caress
an old man stroking his beard.
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