Sensory high of olo and indigo,
but still faded like a ghost —
focusing on touch
but can't blend through to the other side.
Like things sourced and not spoken or cut,
ethically stuck in mind,
vacancy off.
Things dwell in that deep blue well.
Sonnets of blackbirds sing while in paradise —
not so wise to speak the truth
when it doesn't ring melody
to the proof reader of the palm eater.
