The following poem first appeared in The New York Review. It also appears in my book, "Follow The Wolf Moon" from MJS Publishing Group.

My pen holds three night-skies of blue
midnight, enough for acres of corn-row marks.
Marks that make words that make light of the legal rule
to which they seem to conform. A jacket catches my eye,
backdrop for a woman's black braids, absence of color
or all colors at once. The pen hurries to follow

a man in tight coif & sport coat who follows
the woman to the counter, his jeans and eyes denim blue.
I smile at him vaguely. He loses color,
scans the coffeehouse menu. The marks
on the board offer no relief for his appetite or eye.
He exits quickly. I've broken some rule.

Like paper cuts on cuticles!—the need for rules
to govern interaction between men; loneliness often follows.
My book recaptures my eye,
dares me disturb a universe with my own displays of blue.
Eliot's “Complete Poems” shows the hard marks
of repeat re-read in its binding's faded color.

Unlike Prufrock, buoys keep me from dark colors
of deep water pressure—those locker-room rules—
buoys that float above smirks, stares, remarks,
above indecision & self-derision to follow
a vision of gray shot with navy blue:
the color and the mood of those eyes. Eyes

I'd search & write in sunlight, eyes
above cheeks creased with pillow-blush color,
mirrors of my own indigo, blue on blue.
I leave quickly the morning after, as a rule.
Rare that breakfast (or another night) follows:
a moving target gathers no marks.

At the counter, the barrista adds a sixth mark
to my card. She's read my order in my eyes,
an order she efficiently follows;
six black coffees—I hate that wish-wash tan color—
and the next cup is free! That's the rule
here. She'd better draw my victory 'X' in blue.

Eye wanders; pen follows, scribbling diligent marks.
Like a backed-up sink, blue submerges white before my eyes:
indigo color-spills on rule after rule.