blue by irras han

Note: poem originally appeared in Tryst; photo first appeared in Branches Quarterly.

b l u e

b y    I r r a s   H a n

Her voice
flickers in blue -
young Picasso blue.
Sometimes dark, some times
deep. Sometimes light, subtle and clear,
clear as the thin clouds flying too close to the moon.

It’s impossible to paint something uniform or simple.
A sleepwalker’s brushstrokes are not logical.
Her feet trample over the palette,
splashing speckles and spots.
Some fall on my time step -
tiny window leapers,
suicidal lovers…
blue-blooded
modern art.

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