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Blood Maps in Blue

I Veins blue as death but they flow, tributaries in a returning system. They fork only when the mind rides a lightly sleeping cycle to a venous river and there sinks within seeking a source for it must be replenished, made to travel on richer currents of air. In such a reverie blue threads splay, spread themselves traveling to a nexus of stars on byways stripped of any anatomy. II The girls and boys ride to school ever faster, a teacher fills blue inkwells from a drip in his arm. The children peddle swiftly along; for on every desk there's an apple for each of them. In that fruit a slow wriggling hex, a pishogue sheds one desiccated skin after another expanding its continuance, but not so soon, not so fast, not as speedily as the blue river runs for it is the stream that feeds into itself. III That indigo atlas furrows a mounting gravity through a chambered pump for it has miles yet to cycle, it surges and swells unhindered, it crests and syphons through transforming bellows, around it pounds unless that dark spell grows too large and dams its onward course then it may cease upon the morrow or worse.

Copyright © Eric Ashford

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