Blue moons do exist. You say: Look at the blue
of my lips. Look at the hole in the crown

of my head closing in. The dye that makes
a heart visible. This is blue. I blow

on the blue cold of fingers. I pat blue eye
shadow in place. I listen for the shuffle

of your feet as you come
for me. Blue hides in the sound

of the helicopter flying overhead. Blue is
in the roar of the crowd as a statue topples.