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Neptune’s streaky blue,
Bluer than the blue
Off Bermuda, blue
That through the eye strikes
Past the mind, a new
World. We see the likes
Of it nowhere else.
I rub, in my way,
Neptune’s blue substance
Between my fingers.
A fine world powder,
The substance lingers,
Tough to wash away.

About the Author
Brian J. Buchanan is a writer in Nashville, Tenn. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Crannóg, Chronicles, the Westchester Review, Literary Matters, Modern Age, the Cumberland River Review, Potomac Review, and elsewhere.
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