Among the blue damselflies
of my daughters, nothing finished,
one of a crowd, & no workshop.
“Because I love colors, for me
everything’s hard,” says the damselfly,
tumbling in irises, watching for his girl,
and then along the stalk he accompanies
her to the train and the iris
rolls up a leaf in her footprints.
Usually, I’m up to my eyes in the river,
all day, and I take notes.
And in the evening I offer my wife
my soft blue member, with green tints.
She tumbles through the iris,
imagining the stalk.