Sky

I woke up this morning,
and the sky was blue--

blue like the glittering tarsier eyes
of cornfed princesses lointaines,
bluer than deep breaths
or mountains.

I said, The sky--
has it always been blue?
So this is why
people are always saying it
is blue.
And the grass, I think,
might be a little green,
just at very edges of its sharp blades
and at the tips,
like alien blood on tiny lances.

Blue sky, green grass--
how strange and now
I must learn to live among such things,
learn again to live,
like abandoning a book
half-read.

And these are lovely--
but I will miss the grass, gray as ashes,
and the hideous beauty
of the blood-red sky.