The vagrant blue in the November fields. I have that. At least I have
That. The lost arms of flowers, though nothing weeps. And the only
Color is the gray electrical structures and the graffiti.
There is dire in the blue, directly in this wandering. I will work out the
Equations later.
At this rate, by the end of the year, the moon will have enough to buy
A helicopter. And have that ankle looked at.
Part of it is the dust from stars. Part of it rolls in the ground,
Like a season.
This is the part how each leaf before it catches hold
Of the earth
Says hello.
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naïve haircuts 
This poem is alive with vibrant imagery. And the first stanza made me chuckle a few times. “…the ghosts arrive to try on my socks.” Well done.
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I’m very glad you liked the humor. Thank you.
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I’ve got no idea what’s going on here, Bob and frankly it doesn’t much matter. I’m just on a wild roller coaster of images and I’m hopping on for another ride; wheeeeeeeeeeee
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Thanks John, that’s actually a perfect response to this poem. I’m glad you had fun reading it. Awesome!
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Bob, as always, adore your mixed metaphor and even (picking from between my teeth to study again the half-chewed joke of Saturn), think, hmm, that ain’t so terrible after all.
Good work!
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Thanks Nick! Glad you enjoyed it.
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It’s all about “the vagrant blue in the November fields.”
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Thanks Andy. Glad you liked that line. I thought I touched on something when that line came to me.
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I absolutely love everything about this poem ❤
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Thank you!
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Though I need to know the equation of the dire blue!
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I keep thinking about how to answer this, but I’m coming up blank. Maybe that’s good, maybe that bad??
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😄 I didn’t actually expect an answer to that, Bob! It’s sweet that you tried though.
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