Rosso Corsa in your midday complexion
you spoke no names for the bones in your hand
fire engine dashes, notes bled in the margin
out of hand, on the town, siren brain scan
like some bottled Venetian, whistling rages
you waited there like a red tea kettle
you waited in your unread paper pages
sipping rooibos, writing, tense, plural
‘life is ruled by fortune, not wisdom’, you sigh
noble o’er a vermilion keepsake
on the same day you find out you are like Fry
it’s in your bones and it’s a lucky break
toasting Sangria, there’s nothing to rupture
and you speak no names for the brightest colour

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·