the red tower
is the color red assuming
a shape,
turning itself into
a surreal
surrender,
what used to be
a mere
spot, perhaps a drop of
blood, or
a stench of
hemorrhagic
discharge,
or perhaps a crushed
tick discovered
by a lover in the bed
of another
with so much joy
having eliminated a sore
a pest
an itch,
a conflagration
of fire,
an empty food coloring
turning into
lips,
into strawberries,
into love burning
and burning,
enqueued thirst
without quench,
framed by the cold and
bold strokes of
blackness
into a tower.
i, too, assume
meaning,
from the flashes of
red
sore mouth
existence....
sunset now,
restive,
into
dreaded
drowsiness.
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