red comes like echoes 
on the cliff above the television 
graveyard. someone is on
the other line for you.
you find yourself in a white 
house again & you think, "no
no no no no." walking & hoping
there are no more reds in you
to bleed out. once you laid
on the empty bedframe 
of a small god & you painted
the posts & the floor with 
your guts. you have a way of 
escaping yourself. plastic grocery bag
of a person. the apple fall 
from your chest like softballs.
tripping & making a birthday cake
of the stairs. all you want is
for the sky light to not attract
the sudden deaths of cardinals.
it is you though. you are a magnet
for the internal as it severs 
& shows itself. a roadkill prophet.
kneeling in the shadow of 
a crumpled elk & twisting the bone
into sculpture. the blank is where
a red goes to be born. a pair 
of scissors. valley of ashes 
on a post card in the mailbox.
yes, i am going where the surface
is a knife away. whale watching tour
in a red ocean. there is the white 
whale. there is the cruise ship.
sunglasses night. i could just
go by myself. scrambling 
little ants. i stain everything
& watch as the color deepens. 
a man stands in the corner of the room
so he can watch. 

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