The night was summer. Laying by the metal canoe
still full of rainwater, lily pads wilt to red.
With a calloused fingertip (nail clipped down to its bed)
I paint across your bare stomach, strokes turning to red.
Blinking in and out of sleep you play your songs
to the rapt crickets chirping on fresh sumac, bright red.
Meanwhile, dreams create moon bears who growl
to the planets that burn hot, bright, and red.
All glass when angled to the sun prisms out in colour.
You settle deep into my wood grains, earth warm red.
All our roses left hanging to dry, their wet petal centres
like faint heartbeats pulsing that romantic note of red.
Find me facing the rising sun, prostrated, and kiss the dirt
beyond me, as though everything you see flames red.
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