In The Dark

Turn blue, dye blue, woaded sky,
Be cyan that I might write you down,
Describe your folding cobalt, merge my 
Page to indigo and blueline your furrows of
Clinging, wadding cloud, those whitewinter fleeces
And combed mares' tails that emphasise you.

So high and dry, so cold a sapphire, cerulean
Skysea of gentian laziness and light breezes, the scene
Could be Grecian, except that down here
All is mundane and too planned
For there are no flaring torches placed by
Hand in carved niches on our streets.  Wayfarers' feet

Are floodlit by orange neon eyes spaced
Each from each by exactly ten paces.  There is 
So much artificial light our eyes are dimmed
And it is hard to recognise the empyrean
In a plain blue sky when we stand 
In the dark.
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