Quiet.
And the sheets
are red.
Alone,
in the crimson
morning,
I write,
I'm not sure why,
but I think
I love him.
I'd be all right
with a child.
Take me
to the Arizona
night sky.
I'm guessing
that every mosquito,
and every tree limb,
and every single
thunder crack back
has lived with
such a feeling.
If I could, I'd ask the ant,
or maybe the cheetah.
Here and now,
out there, someone
is blindsided
by a naked,
Iceland afternoon,
feeling the life there,
from smooth skin
to wrinkles. Quiet.
Yes, the sheets
are red. Alone,
in the crimson
morning.
C.A. MacConnell
