For a time I wrote poems on the subway
my eyes were bright and green

I grinned and spoke in crystal tongue
and wrote what little I'd seen

I didn't see what I thought I saw
as the seed sees not the ground

but perennials in summer fields
will watch the bloomers assume

that photos keep their colour
when instead they leave no room

for pictures on a dreaming wall
lifted out of you

now I sit writing poems on the subway
a duller shade of blue.