To Look at Flowers That Are Blue,

 

and not pink or red, is one of the only ways

to peer into sky’s own eye. To breathe song

 

into lungs, skip the forecast and the night

show, skip the fear of memory, and why not?

 

Don’t pet the old man to death

by thinking only of mercy and balm

 

on the answering machine, and

if you do anyway, think about what the nurse told you

 

about death: that’s a long song he holds in his mouth.