I exhale a blue language
of nouns and verbs.
My syntax
frozen in the atmosphere
hidden on a cloud high above
Mauna Kea.
In search of exclusive metaphors
while observing the nene
as it forages for food between
the cracks and crevices of black and gold
lava flows, hardened by decades of cooling
now joined by violet joy bushes
and a profusion of bright green tree ferns
still erupting into red phrases
congealing into the deep blue pacific
crimson orange tongues ablaze.
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