‘Three Red Things’ by C. Murray

Poethead

Three Red Things

the three red things are:

a red umbrella with a black lace trim
spoke-shattered it belongs to my mother,
does not match my abstract and faux
snaky blouson jacket,

Alfred Schütze’s The Enigma of Evil
a memento-mori from his old library,
its red cover is rain-glued-sodden.
I bind myself to a tree,

a shopping bag, berry-red
not much to say about it
is the third red thing.

And I am in the park,
moulded to the body of a tree

its roots are moving beneath my feet.
I am afraid it will tear up from the
soil’s hungry drinking as,

form crystallises

assumes its
 almost shape,

within the silica of
 this holding-skin,

beneath crystal swipe
 and tungsten-lunge

into the exact point
 and drain,

then seep
 from the vessel-encasement,
not sustainer.

Form crystallises
until
form becomes

 a stone dress

press-to
 drop-by-drop
raindrop-and-sinew
 the whole woman

not tamp-in
 onto…

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