Our blue morning never came
though the movie played over
and over again. Sometimes,
in the middle of the night,
a train whistle blows
and no one hears it.
And the knife that we keep
by our beds calls for the place
in our hearts it was meant for,
where the meaning of home
is the space between our hands,
the uninhabited web, the wasted
tomb, the unknown land where
flowers never bloom, where moon
is the closing eye, the last blue sliver
of light that passes through us.
