Lawn chairs like lateral road maps–
the grass scans blue. I won’t go out
today. Bent light. Light like water spots.
Nobody walks here anymore: three apricot
trees and a peach. The leaves fill with
blue, separate into blank space.

Now, a man in blue grasses sits down on the
lateral slats. Answers turn over in the
middle distance. Think of the way

a blue vein of light remembers itself.
The man in blue glasses frowns
in his lawn chair. He listens to me.

I have a baker’s dozen of blue words
to offer: azure, turquoise, opaline,
etcetera. On the other hand, except for

their pastel variants, some blues are
almost untouchable. Notice how all four
of these blue trees balance each other

against the pale bermuda grass. The man
in blue glasses wipes smears of light
from his eyes. Tomorrow, I will close

the window. I will go outside. Tomorrow,
I will translate the man’s blue hands
into prose for you.