The detergent was blue and the whitener
Like summer clouds in the bluest of sky.
Cloth whites have blotches of blue wash.
Below us we had blue veins of soft flesh
Its white bones like a dry summer heat.
A rain in our thoughts was blue veined.
The blue sky was like the door in village
Whose whites of mud walls were bones
White against the blue of the village sky.
If all things are blue, what is in the belly?
Monday blues ride bone white Sundays,
And Mondays were like all other days.
Aren’t we blue sky-bound lovers of God
Who was a sky blue kid stealing chunks
Of white butter in mom’s hanging pot?