We set sage alight, broke wind with our wings and hurtled.
Furnishings filled the time like ice.
The way is new, the world is southwise where the other lies
And the sky’s the colour of International Klein.

I remember blue plumes of denim dew.
You let me know that I was good (thank you).
I remember blue aging like a bruise,
Maturing through the hues.
If it comes again, I’ll bet it all on blue.

Velvet pools around our table when it’s raining paint,
Making ponds and shapes and octopi and each other.
When the plaster pealed like a bell they came and prayed
And loved the curls the plaster made, my mothers and brothers.
We’d wait until the perfect hour of the day when the sun might
Squeeze between the bower walls and our beams were brighter than summer.

The grass was sawn and the seeds were sprinkled and sown in the lawn in the winter.
And each year I’ve known since that rooting in frost, the spring has sprung in September.

I remember blue. I seized upon this group,
Seeing them waltz away with Mr Bigg and Old Mayo Shoe.
I remember blue, I’ve taken up this niche with you.

All that we left there was dandruff, it sticks in the humus like burrs to Sylvester.
The garden is full now with fig trees and garlic and fireworks and rhododendrons.

Students relocate a lot. The people I lived with as soon as I was able to choose them have become another family and leaving the first house we shared inspired ~*poetic*~ recollection of everything we did there. For the purposes of coursework, we got into Blue (more than just a Hue) which seemed to crop up everywhere as soon as I started looking for it – the Baader-Meinhof thing? We painted with watercolours once, I wonder how much our subject choices say about us as people (if you hadn’t already supposed, yes of course I was the one who painted a pond, nature imagery is my Achilles heel). Mr Bigg painted me like an evil genius and also a bird in a hat taking money out of a cash point; it is far beyond my analytical abilities to explain this.

Sylvester is the looney tunes cat, and Pinus sylvestris is the taxonomical name for the Scots Pine, my favourite tree (Conifer John).

Pray, for what do we move ever but to get rid of our furniture, our exuviae: at last to go from this world to another newly furnished, and leave this to be burned? It is the same as if all these traps were buckled to a man’s belt, and he could not move over the rough country where our lines are cast without dragging them — dragging his trap. He was a lucky fox that left his tail in the trap.

– Henry David Thoreau, Walden

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