Kind of Blue

Maybe it's all kind of blue,
like skies shift languid dawning
soft as miles but insistent.
Time proceeds in brushbeats
and low chords swing quiet

until eventually we turn over
and arise in sleepy blinks,
in waking swallows passing
from track to blowy track,
round-toned. My orange

tastes of morning: sweet sunny,
encircled in bright. Just unpeel
my life, dig it, and forget
the pith: it's all segmented
anyway. Eat it piecemeal.

Later it's a little green,
unfolding preachy soul calls,
dancing heartbeat sings
along coaxial neurons ringing
hip doors, rock rolling hours.