This is the black, shot with blue, of my dark
daddy's knuckles, that do not change, ever. Which is to say they are no more pale
in anger than at rest, or when, as
I imagine them now, they follow
the same two fingers he has always used
to make the rim of every empty blue
glass in the house sing. Always, the same blue-to-black sorrow no black surface can entirely hide.

Blue (1992)