Blue Room in Poetry

The world does not stop
simply because you wear blue
Last night soaks us through
to the bones, trembling like smoke
in pumped lungs. Whirling. So blue
it taints the air, tastes all wrong
on your slab of tongue.
I think it is silence. I think it is you.

God knows I`ve tried
to fold the right words in the mouth.
This bitten, quiet mouth. Words-such
dangerous vapours, wrapping you
like a blue gift. I think you hear me,
still at the window
where morning unpeels your eyelids;
pales your head to a memory
of frost hardening on glass.
Watching all the blackbirds
scatter their wings in the sky.
The sleepless cat is a blue autograph, watching
four and twenty angels
fling themselves from the roof.
I do not ask whether you have tried.
Metres above you, in that gaslight sky,
the beating crowd tumbles to nothing.
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