Well, red.
Apostrophe science was the poet’s crutch
invincible to the fact that words are as much inaccuracy
as the blind marksmen
feeling the soil to see a target not underneath
his feet
fled the scene while the works sunk
titanically remembering it was time
on the surface of waters rippling in all directions
capture time how could I with only a watch
when the sand slips through my mind’s ridges
while burning an hour
I never had any way capture
the essence of a woman then we will have today
at our very fingertips to manipulate like cymbals
crashing patterns into the shore incase
diamonds cascade back into the abyss
forgive my inaccuracy
the light of language fades a bit when
we learn ABC’s to earn our CBA’s from that
austere institution filled with
historical rage
that the books contained in them
inclusion passed over
organized prowess making the daring
progress desirous
as would danger befall the old man on the porch
panting, remembering, telling stories
of when he witnessed a friend of a cousin whose aunt
lived next door to the one who lit the
torch