You sent doves drawn in blue
each time Thursdays rolled their sleeves
up and regulated evening’s indiscretions.
Trying takes all manner of coincidental breezes
then sails toward whatever nears its bowsprit.
Contraption always pinning the question,
imagine yourself releasing the question
into a deep anthemless blue
pacific quilt stitched by a carved shell-breasted bowsprit.
The shogunistic mailman’s sleeves
blow open and reveal breezes,
and anxiously attentive I thank you for your indiscretions.
Remember those couples? Their indiscretions
led us to our future full of one unutterable question,
a desire to forget we aren’t wingless in breezes.
Because above my rooftop hovers blue
possibility, I wear your sleeves
and consider your replica for my bowsprit.
Unless you jinx my technique of carving a bowsprit.
The slow lighthouse of my indiscretions
signals the arrival of dresses without sleeves.
What will serve as answerable? A question
hovers. Tomorrow blue
possibilities will carry breezes
intended to deliver more unaswerable breezes.
I follow traditional methods to get to the word bowsprit
but end with blue
chronicles foretelling our indiscretions.
Will anyone receive this question
with embroidered sleeves
full of westward longing? Your sleeves
pinned closed despite the breezes
enclose your most tender particular question:
what do we want? A bowsprit.
One must embark on open seas wherein indiscretions
siren one like vessels into blue.
Your sleeves are made of silk and blue.
Named for a question this bowsprit
breezes towards the island of indiscretions.