C & C, if you please
calaya
Gunmetal Blues
Icy winds flap a flag,
messages dressed in dim
across partly cloudy skies
crying gunmetal blues.
Winged things sail high.
Snowflakes chill on limbs.
Behind the signals’ pole,
beyond slumbering birch
a current exhales;
and on a near horizon
the sun shouts hues
louder than the phone.
Tones cold as my, “Hello?”
Scales older than wrong numbers.
Blood sounds, ‘round pale,
dispirited stripes.
Icy winds whip a flag.
Cataract’s throw spaces
dressed in double faces
over a standards’ messages.
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