spilled out when I loaded the brush.
I trailed their crimson shafts through a wet that was
scarcely tinted, and watched the way they bloomed
like blood ribboning through a rockpool, or something
similarly underlit and cool.
But bloody, you say, is muddy and everyone hates losing it.
The word 'blent' came to me, and 'suffused'
and 'curdle'. I just wanted to go
on and on watching that alizarin crimson sheaf
pouring over into its next state.
In the middle of a massive 4-lane flyover once,
the momentary malfunction of my windscreen wipers
jangled my mind. In an instant,
a swirl of snaking brake lights flared and blent into
the corrosive red of the city's night flower.
Just like that, a thing torn loose,
heart in the mouth, blood in the head,
a giant bloom was pressing up to the surface
of its caul, imprecisely
distinct, like a mouth coming up
for air, or to be kissed, say,
for its own deliverance.
I had only to recognise
the need, see the stain spill
beyond its moment of definition.
|Return to titles|