by Patricia Reed
somewhere between the click and the inbox
the words are turning blue
like they couldn’t bear to stand coming in
black so they stole sky
or got wet on their way to me. when they come,
I know that they are blue jays
flitting in the box and waiting. each jay resting
on empty space. it’s the blank white
they perch on, little legs tethered to nothingness
which probably makes this easier
for you. Dorothy sings for Frank at the Smooth Talk
but now it’s me who has to be frank.
how many of us sending out black signals
are receiving them in color now?
as if this phenomenon were a product of a mood–
blue for a lack of strong emotion
or for calming the nerves, but then why is Viagra
blue? because nobody is sleeping now.
you’ve sent three hundred and sixty-eight
all written in perfect lines
waiting in perfect space.
