At eleven thousand feet,
we stood under a clear vault
of blue sky, but not the blue
you are thinking of, no.
Not the blue of the suburbs'
huddled masses. Nor the blue
of the Blue Note Club in New York,
though almost that of a tenor sax
with a split reed.
It's somewhat like that blue bottle
your neighbor kept – god knows why –
in her bedroom window. Not exactly
the blue of New Orleans or Nashville
or Harlem either, though maybe almost
the blue of a pick-up game along
the Henry Hudson Parkway at about 89th.
Miami almost has it but its too warm
and there are too many boats. Minnesota
probably has one or two lakes among its 10,000
that nail it, but I've never actually seen them.
I might say it was the blue of Chartres
with monks singing compline,
but that does neither justice.
Let’s just say, it was blue
the way winning the seventh game
of the world series tied
in the bottom of the ninth
with two outs and nobody on