I’ve hit a place where red dries in fields

off the path: the anger of red, violence of red,

warmth and desire of red, fear of red,

satisfaction of viewing red heat or red

calm at dawn. Pervasive as weather,

you can’t put a finger on it. Foggy redness

pulls landscape closer to us, in the leaves

of your voice, in red eyes. Your breath feels

distant. Or, I should say, it’s blushing

among branches, where red misunderstands

wet morning walks, slipping on a wet leaf.

Red is one I could faint in. All the spots I see.

But you hold a cup steaming in soupy redness.

As illogical as equal signs, red still separates us.