"oh no- no, no- it can't be Red-

it just can't be her," he said

"not the way she left that old torn dress,

the one she wore, the night before

the fires came."

they often came alive on muggy summer nights like these

or on autumn afternoons that crackled low and smoky

yes, she was better than all of them at night

she was

firework explosions snatching falling stars

on the soles of her pale bare feet

roman candles falling from her rusty hair

yes, she was better than all of them at daybreak

the bow of her full lips drawing in tight

whole worlds

then releasing them a breathless little at a time

tugging and wet even while her eyes slept

on feathery

half-closed dream torn lids

beneath appeared dark half moon eyes

a mere sliver

in the sky of her wandering face

no-

no, it can't be Red

bleeding

on the side of the road

where now only blowing dust

and dirty brown remain