Might not know your blue
Know you have sky
Stipulate to your desert priest
Know you have storms
Your suffering dog-silent I admit
Like the girl sang it: you’re star.
Star stuff, no desperation
None available to matter
Nor kindness but a pinprick
Too bright to see alone.
A storm is best mended when it’s past
And if it takes the roof from your head
Listen for the signs in circling, groaning gale:
In the morning prepare to take advice.
Your sky is mine as well my dear,
It’s always there, a wide surprise
Stepping out of our limestone caves
With timing only sensible in the wash-up.
Exhalation once blood is now air
Once rust is now bird
Its colour as pertinent as mud’s
Its qualia holding aloft button quail.