by Christos Polydorou

My darling. A
world’s starling. Stars
shine keener, because

of you. You enter rooms and you
leave them. One day, you added
that you had to fly home

to bring back the finest Italian
blue. Silk? Oil paints? Bits of sky? You
were gone in flocks before I got to whys. Farewells,

arrivedercis, every generation suffers
at the hand of the last, some of which
nonetheless ride horses through time

and all its trees and islands aligned. I
was born on an island and then I went
to another island and then another island
until I ended up at the second of

all islands where I heard my laughter
echoed, twice. Perhaps all I am looking
for is the brother I lost, I am aware, but

I have changed since then, I’ve been
analysing and cross-categorising my
space dragons and my book birds
and have come to the conclusion

that blue is a colour you swim in,
and breathlessly,
not one which you can extract.