The Point Near Blue
You cannot sooth me at the point near blue.
Cool it on the signs and mumblings,
it knows amour’s at fault and that these ills
are the kind that kills men for souvenirs.
The joy French waiters have venting
on tourists. The appraisal of each penny
spent in another language. How much?
The vanilla nut latte, the cinnamon pastry,
the hour kneeling and lighting candles
for the sacrifice son—explain the exchange
rate compared to the past. Less man dances,
the less man rests with woman face to face.
Those tan disco souls know this. The point
near blue denotes where a brass band
will pass this evening. I will be kneeling there.
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