Until a Gush of Crimson

Until a Gush of Crimson

With everything night wrapped up.

I am a wet blanket in ink.

Forgotten corner of a park
where he played and you stood as my
mother stood

(I was young and light-haired).

Left his orange peel, red play thing, and a duck with water

spinning off its smooth brown wing

temporary as tomorrow and I

am nothing nothing and quiet, while

your face sets on a television outline of the day
and your mouth moves along my insecurity problem.

What are we after?

intelligent chatter, backward curving of your mouth shaped odd

and sterile.

And saddest of all
the Atlantic has not altered unhinged night

when everything is weighted. A slight

imbalance makes it easy so

let's end it

let's allow it to slip

through soft pink cleaned

by bighting hemp or twine pulled

until a gush of crimson smiles
(and I fall asleep).