from A Story of Blue
“We know through hearsay that love exists.
Seated on a rock or under a red parasol, lying in the field buzzing with insects, our hands clasped behind our necks, kneeling in the cool darkness of a church, or settled on a straw chair within the four walls of the bedroom, head lowered, eyes fixed on a rectangle of white paper, we dream of estuaries, tumultuous surf, clearing weather and tides...”
I won’t give away the entire poem, but I will say Jean-Michel Maulpoix doesnt use the word blue outside of the title (The Blue Look). It is a felt blue.
Color is an interesting problem. Its a phenomenon. One can only perceive it. This makes me think of Rusty Morrison’s poem where she sticks her hand in a hole inside a tree, feels something gross and remarks, “I have not had the same hand since.”