Truth

The poets say that indigo is seen

Along the sun’s horizon on the sea.

They say that sort of thing.  Those claims are clean

Of truth, of ordinary truth.  They see

It though we don’t.  A deeper truth they seek

And find it but they don’t convey it well

Enough with indigo.  Blue’s violet streak

First seen by Newton ventures to compel

Hyperbole in poets’ eyes’ desire

And so we pardon poets.  We move on

To truer colors of a torch, the fire

Acetylene imposes, semen’s brawn.

  The indigo is darker than the scold

    Of rape, a hue that turns the sun’s lip cold.

©  Phillip Whidden