If you've ever seen blue rain
please explain to me when and where.
I promise I won't steal so much as a fringe.
Tell me if it was closer to a peacock
or prairie-grass blue, the blue edge
of elegant paper, blue thread
inside a block of ice; whether it favored
purple or green, deepened to near blackness,
reminded you of a vein
or of a police car's flashing lights;
the skin's blue tinge when breathing
becomes shallow, the glaze
that illuminates a blue-tiled mosque.
Even if it looked shabby as the feathers
on a thrift-store hat or resembled a bruise,
tell me about the blue rain. Because if you
truly saw such rain, if only for a blink,
there's hope for my square violet snowflake,
for the red wire that connects
waking with dream.
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