By J. A. Weymouth
The murmur is red.
The deep crimson of sour instinct –
Pursing those lips.
Pulsating blood in the current of life.
Your life is drowning.
You look at two faces and see one paler than the other.
What is it you see?
Nothing but the basic, all naturel.
You pick up the cloth
it is red
made of silk
but you do not use it
because you are scared of the dirtied eye
scared to hide it behind the silk cloth.
Tolerant hands tremble
The blood is red.
All bodied blood.
There is nothing frightening behind skin.