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.
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