All in Red
The sun is drifting away again, behind clouds
that look most like the hairs well sprung
from my temples. I can’t see the sun setting,
but I know it is. So many things are like this:
merely a sensation of truth. I can’t see my body
changing, but I know it already is. Just as I know
there’s a woman at the benches on Bainbridge
Street, though I am not there with her.
She is thumbing through a stack of photos
of her son, printed on copy paper,
kept quarter-folded in her purse. I know
that her son is adored, though I sense
he doesis a fragile and delicate thing. I refuse all
