Red.

Do not look for carmine, foxglove, rust

or brick dust, but bloodshot corneas and

flushed cheeks of lovers descending 

steep precipices, blisters on palms held

to chapped lips, embers of ash. 

Think of half smiles, wind, oxblood

glowing suns settling behind skylines,

her hand on your thigh as the canyon

unwinds. Think of words blushing in 

your mouth, letters lingering, ripening,

falling from teeth like heavy pears. 

Think of it as a winter birthmark.

Think of it as biting your tongue.