The ink in the well is blue dust
if I mix it with water
I could perhaps write a poem
about the sea
or a story about love
that mentions roses and moonlight forty seven times,
yet doesn’t reach the heart
when death does us part.
Licked my index finger,
dipped it in blue dust
and wrote your name on the kitchen table.
It was hard to erase before the new woman came,
a hint of an azure melancholy
but I can still read your name,
especially when the sun is warm in May.