Crimson And Deep

He stands like a monument, framed

In the streaked panes, hands curled

Around grips like the ones on a

Forgotten trike, the light scaffold supporting

Him in his goings now, and he bends

His face towards the glass, feeling the chill

 

On his cheeks, and he watches them.

Bright, strutting crimson and deep, smoldering brick,

Waiting as if for a bus or their luggage,

Settled on their dead blackberry cane.

His eyes widen at the art of their mate-ness,

And he translates for them in a whisper

 

Softer than dust –

Do you want to be with me? Yes;

Do you want to be with me? Yes.

— and the pair, settled

In simplicity, look back at him

So three endure the sky’s spray together.

 

~ S.K. Orr