Let’s go the way of false indigo
            spreading into leafless nooks,

                          drop its feathered stalks

into the stone pools laid out
            at world’s end,

                          for we have come a respectable way

together and there is not much more
            to offer our own stretch of road
    
                          than this burning—

a blue flame of petals waterfalled up over
            our skin grown so thin

                          that we are just paths

veering off into spring rivulets
            the color of sage, the color of veins

                          in your hands that used to drop

blue herons out of sky
            and sand into seconds

                          which have no measure

when they cloak plaster walls:
            loose earth given shape 
 
                          to gulls’ beaks, pipers paddling

a shore’s harsh curves reimagined, horizons
            lost to umber and bison
 
                          kicking down cold summer fields
 
blushed of the world’s dust as if to ask
            how we are here, watching.