Deep Red
The paper hearts of my life are snipped
giallo. The crayola marshes are smeared
In color tubes exploding in the etch a sketch
red cursive of an initialed bowler pipe incinerating
the children in good pull. The flame
is an emerald constellate and freezes
in a sharp glass on four sides: the moors
good and dark with human firewood will
always cut their fingers on
this always rising flame, our flame.
London Bridge is Falling Down? Worse.
The paper hearts of my life are wet giallo
The seashells ripples have indexed a mulberry white
and the polluted grains are their inheritance
in the caving sands of my life. Here, I push
your opal doorbell
with the halogen silhouette your lovely burns away
within the tracing paper found
in ovens filled with records
and lymph notes in the burning blue goblet
aquariums dangling in the beard's tendrils.
The flame grows faint with 20 match tricks
in the handstand pools waterless
and zipped to the ceiling with vector
cuticles in boiling water,
the chlorine a veritable recipe
and laid in icons
of cell blue.
