The baize will be soft
against your cheek
while the rail jabs
like to break your neck
You’ll wonder
are those stars in your eyes
or sights
as #2 blue fades to black
You’ll consider the texture
and velocity of wood
shaped as sticks
and spheres and tables
Two things will come clear
you’ll forever tug at your jeans
and blue
is no longer blue
For Just One Word in the Imaginary Garden: APART
