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The Blue Room


ISSUE:  Autumn 1981
In the blue room where I sleep
the blue walls lean toward the blue ceiling.
The blue bed drifts down the room
but I am not sleeping.

There are children’s books at my feet,
there are mysteries at my side,
but they are not mine. The room is not mine.

Why am I saying these things?
It is hours since I woke and wept
alone in the blue room, and now it is morning.

I found the children’s books
when I crawled down the blue sheets.
When I crawled back I found a wooden box.

In the box I found a gold chain.
The box was mine and the chain was mine
but I said The jewels of a queen!
and fastened the chain around my neck.

When I looked in the round mirror
that hung at the head of the bed,
I saw the gold chain, and a ring on my finger.
The ring was mine, a gold initial ring.

Then I lay on the blue sheets
in the blue room. I did not sleep.
Love, I said, and fingered the gold chain.

I thought of home, where it used to be.
Then I wept in the blue room. It was late.
Why did I weep, and what had I said?

Last year I made up a blue room
where a man claimed the sky, the sea.
The man was king of the room.
The man was angry. He said Love.

When I was two my room was blue.
This room is too cold for a child,
they said, and put me in a warmer room.
Years later I painted that room blue.

Now I am sailing the blue bed
on the blue sea of the blue room.
In my hand I hold a ring and a gold chain.

There is far to go on the blue sea,
and far, in the blue sky.
But there is still time, in the blue world.
Now I am seeing blue. The sea is mine.

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