The place where I begin my work
rises from blue in sound and hue. 

I ease its lock open each morning
and go into blue shade and blue whisper.

Sometimes I cannot leave until
the stubborn lock releases me. 

Those days I cannot leave until
I agree to leave a portion of me there.

The place I go to keep working
might be brighter, might be — not.

But it will be blue, too. 
A progression forward, a run upon a fretboard,

a waiting for the light to change. It may blaze
or sputter, but it will be blue. 

The place I go to rest is dark enough
to let me sleep. It’s deepest blue

in pang and and riff, deep enough
to shake me through and soon

I am up and pulling
on work clothes, looking for

the key to the place
where I begin my work, the room

of blue, of sound and hue, of pang and riff,
of everything I thought I left here yesterday

and the day before and the day before that:
things whispering from concealment in the shade.