Autobiography of Red

Probably red
is tired of the Underworld

too, tired of Wittgenstein
and the other

poets. I sleep
alone. My lips

speak a funny
Greek in my sleep.

I cook for you,
so far away

I believe it's
another country.

It's spring.
Red only imagines

its vogue
now. Again,

the excess of red
on its way

to the ocean
can still be

a deceiving thing,
accompanied or

alone, it won't
wilt, damn it

funny red
music of you:

your long arms
around the tree,

your autobiography
of red, I know

I can't write it,
but maybe I can.

Clouds get devious
red at evening,

maybe Anne Carson
in a bath, sings

"je fais la planche"
with k.d. lang

the quiet underworld
of Canadians

We could have,
we could be.

Even in America,
strange Notley red

you bring me;
we swim with women,

you and me. We
blend so well,

we could marry
red to earth.

We could speak
towards our women,

the defeated monster
could lie between us,

in a sweet hymeneal bed.