The Blurring Train

The glowing babywhite, five seconds
after my mother died –
brown from her mouth, the milk of her eyes.
With the invention of trains
poems began being written through windows.
About blurs, blurring away from
or blurring into to love –
soaking verdant, ochre, blackwhite
ombre verticals, purplegold circles, verdigris spirals –
you only get to do it once,
and the speed of it is relative
to how much you have experienced already.
I am blurring from bluegrey uniform
on a yellowgreen school field,
to the starfish pink tingling in the back of my skull,
when our fingers lace for the first time.
I am blurring through it now, soft in the middle,
tired all the time. My role models smudged
in the background. My sense of purpose
filtering through hues of black, but I love to blur
for the sake of blurring. And I will blur no longer
when my train arrives.

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