Red

A man became red.
He was not angry.
He saw the blood-red wall
of a barn set in the dappled green
of Nova Scotia.
The barn-side cut him
and he became the same.

Later, he squeezed his eyes shut
while he looked up
at the balmy face of the sun
and her hair caressed him
yellow, orange and he squeezed tighter
red deeper and deeper
and he let go at the edge of indigo
and he held it there
in the afternoon of his hot short life
and he kissed her
and it chapped his lips terribly,
but at least he was not blinded.

At sunset, he spread out on clouds
and then winked behind some fir trees
that might be cut down for barns
on some bright blue day.