The paint dries, blue as a nodding sea
In the brain’s trenches.
The scent travels to the cerebellum
Which fine tunes our longing.
The exact hand brushing up and down
The house’s flanks
Desires to live between
Perfect walls of sky.
Wherever the movement started,
Whatever the spark was,
These long unparted boards
Are the result.
When the work is done
The heart’s motor eases
Into a glass-eyed purr.
The magnitudes of blue
Resemble the summer so precisely
The occasional bird
Flies right through.