Red is for fire engines
For all those poems
Written according to the rules
chalked up on the blackboard.
Now red is the blood on my thighs.
Red is the mist over my eyes.
The ink in the pen that marks me.
The smell of the wind that howls-
meanly- in the space inside me.
Now I know colour is all in the bend of the light.
The mystery behind my eyes.
We are all motes dancing.
I guess the rules are broken.