The Truth About Lies listen

1

Look it up
yourself:  blue.
To be exact,
a clear sky is
blue and so blue
is the sky.



2
Don’t look
now, but the sky
keeps secrets.

What appears to be
cool and calm and
trustworthy tints

on a whim:  indigo,
aqua, oh pure azure.
And blue likes ad lib,

pitching itself black
with the smeared ink
of sleepless nights,

powdering impatiens
pink in the bleary-eyed
dawn, or sometimes

at sunset gushing
hemorrhaged regret.
The whole vivid shebang

trumps true blue.  It’s
physics, really, bending
the truth—that hot-flash

solar flambeau beams
blinding white light into
atmospheric medley, warmly

inciting the shorter waves so
that some, not all, take off
waltzing to resonant

frequencies, reradiating
dizzily in every direction
as if construing creation.

Honestly, stop squinting.
Let your pupils widen, let
the cones and rods collect,

convert, signal the optic
nerve to invoke the cortex
where linguistic codes give

meaning.  Blue is a figment,
a reflection.  Blue does not
live in the sky, it never has

unless the hawk circling
overhead convinces you
to believe otherwise.

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Copyright © 2007 by Mary Ann Schaefer
All work owned by individual author and should not be reproduced without permission.