The taste of blue is a burnished weed anchored to the anointed
mouth of a salty cove. Blue is not wasted on storms of flesh.
Blue is the seamless edge of crescent moorings, a curious heteronym,
the faith of suspended love. Blue moistens the waters of a distant
cape, clings to cobbled memories, waits quietly to soothe the pain
of a wasted moment. Blue is the voice of a pasture’s praise.
Blue is the final note when the melody is gone.
Châz
