We are blue flowers
lifting sad faces to the moon
when all the world is sleeping.

We are nine types of unhappy,
but all the miles of the oil-green sea
cannot keep us from dreaming.

Be true to me, just once more
until morning. I will go then
with my hands in my sleeves,
shoes wet from the dew.

Before you wake I will step over
the letters on the carpet,
and be gone into the mist
hanging over the water.

The empty windows, open wide, will fill our house
with brighter air, blown in from the continent,
and in the evening you will hear my voice,
saying things I never thought.

I am sorry, but unrepentant.
Deservedly condemned, if you really believe
I deserve anything from you,
or him, or anyone.

Let go my hands,
watch me vanish into the waves.
I promise only to come back one day,
with webbed toes,
and a song of the world.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

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