Bloody Red

 All good writers have written

We all lie in grass; this is,

For all of us, a waste of time

This much is true, how much?

Throw out numbers with bocce balls

For lovers on horseback

 

I have never breathed fire

I’ve broiled over one, I crackle

In the fireplace surrounded

By tumbled decanters of

Red blood and bloody poems

That I don’t know how to stop writing

 

Published at The Pangolin Review