Blues, #42

A phrase of a song is just attached
to my psyche, & won't get outta me:
"I wear blue. I wear blue,"

but it's not so simple as that:
I (elongated) wear blue. I wear (pause) blue.
A vinyl with a speck in the groove.

This is the nature of a song, I suppose.
It digs & digs and then I wear it too.
And when the body adjusts

the eyes adjust too. Everything gets tinted,
what else in this view isn't blue.
Even pain has its own depths

and that's why a song digs. Despite
sweetness like honeydew, it aims for something
and then it tints.