Some mornings, I wish I
could stay with you, dabbing
to sooth
your forehead
with a damp cerulean cloth
until every last hope
in your fiery mind
is gone.
A cure
for those times when
there isn't
supposed to be one;
for those days,
which are
many,
when the universe
of music
you dreamed the night before was
so pure,
such
a perfect mix
of warm
tender pain
and cool
composed loneliness—that
not just you,
or me either, but
all of us
would be in some
serious trouble
if you ever
remembered—a single
blue note of it.
