bottle the ocean.
it looks clear.

imprision the sky.
air disappears.

blue is a made-up pigment. a
figment of our imagination. a
fabricated hallucination.

not fire. nor air. nor earth.
i searched. the plants. and water. it’s not in Homeric poetry. not anywhere.

just the hollow bodies
of mass sandwiching us.
a mellow glare. trans-
lucent. see-through. clear.

the ocean’s depths. dirty charcoal.
yucatan peninsula water falls. o’er
my own genuine blue eyes as
the myan ruins reveal my lie.

forgetting this blue collar
mess with ripped terminology.
denim turned to jeans
post war. 1950s.

blue is not real.
(eye) see right through (them)
in water’s reflection.

pinch me.
so i may know
that i’m
not

empty.