Wrapped in Blue

I am a poet whose mother has died, I think,
as I eat an apple, rose splendour,
watch the clover flowers,
hosting bees and insect parades,

and move downwind from the dogshit;
glossy and shimmering with flies
that were inside on my bench
moments ago.

I roll on my back as sun
bakes my eyelids to deep crimson
and green iridescence.
A framework of fingers
shapes the sky in a flawless
envelope of blue.

I shuck off my jeans and let sun
and wind finger my skin.

This, now,
on the brink of divorce,
a poet attempting a novel,
motherless,
moneyless,

seems like the fibre filament
trapped beneath my contact lens.

Always there, whether my eyes are open
or shut,
but not enough to steal heaven
from the blue above me.