"redness" isn't even
a thing that exists.
And yet—there it is
(or has
got to be, anyway),
darkening your mind
with its
quiescent images:
this defensible suicide
every evening
around six;
this florid vermilion
of courage—
not panic—
as half the planet
placidly
turns its back
on the face
of that slowly
asphyxiating man.
