Blue Whose Dark Was a Long Ways Down

Some days I think of a host
Like me, but in her own way,

Frail, who lived as long as I
Have so far, and a bit more,

A few months. Can I catch her?
She wrote poems—less lines, more minds

Who read them, more prized than mine,
Not much like mine. Well, then why

Did I write she was like me?
That was not fair in the least,

Not to her. Nor was it fair play
To warp that fine phrase of hers.

What can I say? It’s the mood
Her lines share, the tone they take,

The way they sass back at Earth,
Its rules, lines that flick like newts

Turned to moss to mock their host,
That “worm in a goose-down suit.”