Poetry

Dead

is dead.

But please

let me die in bed.

(Plain dead)

Not crimson-pool

and carmine-puddle

Dead.

Not concrete-spattered

window-shattered

red

globs of scarlet

Dead.

A dripping gore-fruit

harvest

from the trees just budding

in the April mist.

“April is the cruelest month,” he wrote.

But in his wasteland

only rocks were red.