In spring the blue azures bow down at the edges of shallow puddles to drink the black rain water. Then they rise and float away into the fields.
Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy, and all the tricks my body knows-- the opposable thumbs, the kneecaps, and the mind clicking and clicking-
don't seem enough te carry me thorugh this world and I think: how I would like
to have wings- blue ones- ribbons of flame.
How I would like to open them, and rise from the black rain water.
And then I think of Blake, in the dirt and sweat of London- a boy staring through the window, when God came fluttering up.
Of course, he screamed, seeing the bobbin of God's blue body leaning on the sill, and the thousand-faceted eyes.
Well, who knows. Who knows what hung, fluttering, at the window between him and the darkness.
Anyway, Blake the hosier's son stood up and turned away from the sooty sill and the dark city- turned away forever from the factories, the personal strivings,