untrue blue

my German friends cycling in New Zealand describe the mountains that won the “beauty prize” as being untrue blue
and the rivers as being untrue blue

the old blind man who everyone avoids for being nuts
calls me by name
and ignores laughter of others
as he whispers lyrics from his own songs
that come out in the sound of brilliant slam poetry: angry, forceful, beautiful
he doesn’t see me
but hears me—
the one
and only

birds sing at night as the snow melts and the stars undress